Your words are folded up into
Tiny
Novels,
As if they are meant for others.
Unfold them though.
After all, you are their great mother.

Sprinkle these shards you call words
Unto my skin,
Like a mother would.
Nurture me and feed me stories;
The ones full of glory.

Lock me up when I see
These stories being full of allegories.
"There is no moral in feeling condemned,"
You said.
"They keep away those horrid angels,
Said the talking head.

It's the truest form of truth,
Pure and worth more than gold.
These words that transform into stories,
Are full of meaning and glory,

and nothing more.

There's no God in these stories,
Nor life or death.
There's only everything worth saving,
After that, there's only the words
That must be bled out and said.