A Narrative Snare

 

Black tales flow from darker ink.

Terrible, tall towers are traced by louring hands.

Stories revealing themselves like foxes beginning to slink,

Pouncing whilst their victims give no enduring reprimand.

 

I, the hunter, begin. 'Tis the truth I seek.

But as though I were flailing in quick sand,

Groping for solid land,

Phrases trap me not unlike stone does a sphinx.

Author's Note

Reviews would be greatly appreciated :)

Reviews

[CMC]

I think you did an excellent job with this poem. My reading comprehension isn't the best, but this is what I got out of this. There are darker sides to every coin or every story that we don't know about, and they can sneak up on us. Some people, like the hunter, get lost in these stories, and they struggle through the quicksand as a victim to the truths they seek.

[Ethan]

Yes! That's exactly what I was going for, thank you.

[CMC]

I'm glad I got it right! You're welcome. :)