Storyteller

She has built a shelter within the pages,

a home that is inked with the tip of her pen,

worlds brought to life with the flick of her wrist,

a tapestry of moments, between now and then.

Ink lived under her fingernails,

words scraped into the core of her bones,

tales found in the trunks of old trees,

footsteps forgotten under old stones.

The joy of a mother as she watches her child,

take his first steps across the stone floor,

the stare of a man as he mourns his true other,

pain that assaults to her very core.

So she scribbles on pages, etching each story,

to keep those breaths alive once they’re gone,

and though it is only a passing glory,

their emotions live on in the shapes she has drawn.

She is plagued by words, by adventures untold,

by the awakening of souls, begging to be heard,

by the scribbles scrawled across her heart,

beating the alphabet of lives observed,

Ink lived under her fingernails,

but life resided at the tips of her hands,

for she was but a storyteller,

with what was and what will be within her command.