In this night of swords and word
I've heard stories told by trolls and listened to them rigidly,sat on a log while fires burnt,and around me later,
learnt that all stories are not the same,do not come from the falling stars nor from the acrid fumes that spill from gaslit rooms or garrets where the poets and tellers of tales would groom their pens and sharpen wits
but rather from the little bits of life that we pass by
forgotten
and yet blink the eye and they appear again
quite clear
and here the ink runs dark like blood across the written page,stark and bold
more stories, listened to be read
and held tight in the whispering of the lightest breeze
as if I should sneeze, it would blow the words away
I stay forever
in the stories never heard
the unwrit of the spoken and not a word will pass me on the blind .side or pass wide of its intended mark.
More stories in the dark
more logs upon the fires we light
and more of more of things to
read,
just write.