9-Storyteller

Each person has their own story to tell. And no two stories are the same.

Storyteller

Arm’s Length

 

Inside my private chamber hangs,

A tapestry of untold tales.

Under the midnight moonlight flows,

An ocean of blood, sweat and tears.

Oh how I wish that you could see,

Wish that you could read my story.

But some things are better left unsaid,

Some pages left unread.

A kite soars high beneath the blue,

Clouds beckoning its particles of paper.

The winds echo voices of freedom.

Still, I am but bound,

By chains as thin as thread,

More potent than can be said.

All through the blissful high,

Unable to comply or to defy.

Witnessing everything, and nothing at all,

But not bothering to care why.

 

We cannot break, completely free,

From our chains, and entities.

As everything, that we have seen,

Comprises that, which we will be.

 

A woman steals pleasure from a foreign touch.

Resting between the sins of her kind.

What has made my lips so cold?

Forced kisses burnt and screams confined.

Pulled from shuddering memory,

And into present time.

Scrubbing herself clean,

To wash away the crime.

 

The aftermath, of our blunder,

Will sink our ships, tear us asunder.

Forgive me now, for I’ve gone under,

I’ve found rhythm, in notes of thunder.

 

A grain of tired sand settles on the ocean floor.

Pulled by the gravity of uncertainty,

Like a nomad that blows with the wind,

To the smallest undercurrent I give in.

To wash myself out of the sea,

I must embark on an endless journey,

And consign to simplicity.

 

Our incentives in life, divide those who aim too high.

Although myriads will try, none can touch the sky.

As those who stay, out of their own way,

Will find relief, in self-belief.

 

A lost lady holds her mourning man,

Hoping she could understand,

His manuscript of hidden hurt.

And the silence to which he reverts.

How can I remove the ink?

To make his smile basic instinct.

As the world may never find,

A recipe for peace of mind.

 

You cannot know, the way I feel.

You have not been, through my ordeal.

What has become, trivial to me,

Is but a fate, none can perceive.

 

A young champion hones his silver sword,

Massaging the edge of the blade.

Why must I head another man’s horde?

Behind his mighty masquerade.

Beaten by the burden of martyrdom,

To make their hearts rejoice.

Torn between honor and true love,

But taken was the choice.

Now that I may die,

And finally be defined.

With me is the one I love,

And had to leave behind.

 

We must not toil, on foreign soil.

For any seed, sown by pure greed.

For empty deeds, incur no fees.

And broken backs, will find no ease.

 

Every soul must sing its song.

And every man must claim his wrongs.

 

Everyone lives by their own philosophy.

Everyone sees what their minds want them to see.

 

Each character has a burden to bear.

Some even harbor a lust for despair.

 

Each infinite tale in the library of life,

Derived from twenty-six letters.

Each word as sacred as the quill,

Moving at divine hands’ will,

Of the oldest bestseller,

The Grand Storyteller.

Author's Note

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