Storyteller’s Duty (Cinquain)

What is the value of silver and gold?
Is it enough to buy beauty?
What happens when beauty grows old?
Does her story remain untold?
Isn't telling the storyteller’s duty?

I wish,
I could be a storyteller.
Telling the untold story from the past and a dead soul.

I wanted to tell you stories.
Whispered to you in dreams.
Written love letters.
Pressed into your skin.
I fear though that I’m not a great storyteller.
Your kisses seemed to forgive.

you're so good at telling stories

you forgot which one you're in

wouldn’t it be nice if the world were so black and white
then we wouldn’t be riddled in grey mud
trying to figure out what is ultimately “right” or “wrong”
while knowing that (right or wrong) doesn’t exist
not really

our world is filled with
contradictions
lies and truths alike
deceits, some for the sake of loyalty

there is no simple “right” or “wrong”
everything is a little bit of both
whether one is more this than the other
depends on your storyteller, no?

a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown

An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door

A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ―

A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―     
                                                          just read:                   Lydia  ...  ♡
                                ... followed by a scribbled empty heart               

The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin

The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,  
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web

An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in

The final unread words silently said:

                               "We lost our way,
                                  it all went wrong,
                                  it all turned bad"

                             ..."This is the outcome when someone you love  
                                  up and throws you away"

                             ...“I’ll reach out from the inside
                                  I’ll rise up again and do without”

                             ..."You went out into the world
                                  with an untamed hankerin’ ―
                                  like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
                                                                 and come back worlds apart"

The Unsent Letter,  
                          just whispered words to the dust in the wind
                                                            ­                        in quivering ink:

                             ..."how can I ever unremember you...?
                                  a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
                                  an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
                                  fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"

                                        just signed:   ...   ❤  August


                          *January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡

hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.

for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.

waiting.
begging.
pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.

we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.

nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.

we simply wish for ****
after ****,
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.

spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.

you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.

save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****.

simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.

you're one of those, are you not? a ******* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?

you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.

but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.

a place with no shelter?

no story to show?

no roof and no halter?

no place to know?

for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.

you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.

and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.

and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.

but don't prove it.

remember, you have a noose that is tight.

all you need is a chair to kick over...

and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.

now, go ahead and tell me what you are...

the naive scholar for all mankind.