Write me a poem; a sonnet or a haiku.
Develop me in fiction; or a story, all too true.

Engulf me with your metaphors,
and string me from your scores.
Surround me with a hundred scribes
and I'll find, for you, some more.

Surprise me with suspenseful thrills
and write to me through winter chills.

Allow me some security
in charming ambiguity,
and set the stage of puppeteers,
the types I haven't seen in years.

I yearn for longing, hopeful prose,
detailing how your loving shows.

Just weave me through your dream machine,
and catch me reading in between
the lines of stories left half done,
through hearts you've lost, there's mine you've won.