The Twisted Text

On these pages: a story writ.

Not lines of love, near opposite.

With wicked words, bursting seams.

and pictures ripped from horror scenes.

This transcript: tallied tragedy,

seemed clear, at first, of trickery

such that I said, with full belief.

“I simply bought a book,

simply bought a simple book...

bought a simple book this early morn.”

Nary a choice did I resent

more than my steps up staircase bent.

Had I known what fate was in store,

I would’ve stopped short of the door

and listened to my heart’s retort

turn my back to oaken boards;

neglect to knock, proceed no more.

Alas, the wiser choice did seem

like foreign words I could not read

a weaker foe to curiosity!

Thus on that door, my knocks numbered three.

On portal’s edge, the wait did seem

a lifetime spent, eternity.

Heard racing heart, mistakening

its pounding pulse for echoed feet.

A lock’s release, my wait was for;

an unlatched, oaken, ornate door.

As portal opened to the store,

of echoed feet, I thought no more.

Creaking hinges, a’rust with age

made way for shopkeep’s leathered face.

His cobwebbed volumes filled the space

and gave the air a smell and taste.

My steps were slow; I didn’t know

what book, which nook, my search was for.

So I walked the aisles, for a while.

‘Till a hidden book stood out

A hidden nook stood out

A hidden book’s nook stood out.

Into that nook, up to that book

my outstretched arms raised hands that shook.

But now I see that I was blind

to evil glints in shop-keep’s eye,

and how my steps had crossed the line,

but like a fool who pays no mind,

I gripped book spine, as chill gripped mine!

Alas, where once I felt so free

this “simple” book imprisoned me!

Looking back, it’s plain to see:

Text locked the door, and tossed the keys.

On portal’s edge, I sat a spell,

For front my eyes, world turned to Hell.

Clocktower bells rang out death knells,

Mixed metaphor with sulphured smells.

A lock's release, an op’ning door;

Followed by sounds I can’t ignore

As I walked home amid the storm,

of echoed feet, I thought once more!

What hearkened there, shadowed so?

It made no noise; I didn’t know.

and so my steps fell soft as snow,

heard silence then, and nothing more.

Was it the shopkeep, hidden there?

In darkness deep, ‘thought, saw his glare

and so I turned, searching, scared.

Nought, I saw in darkness there

Nought, eyes spied, no shadows spared.

Nought, my cry left my fear bared:

“I face you now, as friend or foe!

Why you hide yours, I do not know.”

So still, the shadow stayed its frame..

as if playing a hidden game.

Its outline froze, stuck; seeming strange,

Besot, I sought the shadow’s name!

but to my ears, came only rain.

Alas, light passed, lit up the space

where I expected strange visage,

but to my shock, the revealed place

held only water, reflecting face.

On puddle’s edge, I searched the grass,

found nought but water, still as glass

Just as I thought, “This fog won’t pass,”

my clouded mind came clear at last.

A calming breeze cleared my mind’s haze.

To self, I said, “If blindly brave…

I’d sell tomorrow to yesterday;

risk retrospect of future fate.”

Thus, I thought a tale would end,

The book, or life? I can’t portend.

Post-curse, I’m worse for wear, my friend!

Now words alone don’t serve to mend.

I turned a page into the book,

and as before, my hands, they shook,

The leaves were blank! Was I mistook?

No words were writ, the pages, bare.

No words to read, no lines to share.

No words to see, then one appeared!

A balked belief, before my eyes:

that ghost-writ word was leading lines!

And so I read, still scanning script

‘scarce skipping stanzas, none I missed.

I turned more pages, teeth a’grit…

Falt’ring, failing to feel my fits;

I couldn’t stop; cease reading it.

Alas, time passed, still keeping speed

words filled white pages, enrapt I read

How does this work? What’s it all mean?

Why was the cursive cursing me?

On pages’ end, the words did seem

a lifetime writ, for all to read

Right from the start, text taunted me

divined a doom, a destiny

Its pox perceived, print paper flat.

I begged the book to take it back

“Who’s words were those? Who’s fate is that?

Who’s life and death, in white and black?”

Daunted, I delved defensively

for I felt my future had past, you see

Living my life so timidly

fearing fated folly, unfortunately.

As I read the book, I took

my final form, ‘spite balance shook;

lapsed living lies; won’t die a crook!

I blinked, unlinked, to weaker chain

I shrinked, to think, of lesser gains

I winked, on brinks, but not insane

So now, my friend, I’ll pen some prose;

dream up new lines; make up new words.

Where once I thought that what was writ,

the rise and fall, all of it

could not be altered, not one bit;

as if in stone, the letters sit;

lines laying law, commanding it!

But now I face what fate comes forth;

leave letters forming words with worth.

My written rhymes give gallant girth;

they sing a ballad; but say one verse.

I put down past, but faced it first

in breaking down, I found what works

I fixed my fate, and shed the curse,

Better for me but, for you, much worse!

The book, this poem share a name.

Perchance that fact would make it plain

When written words hide horrid hex

You cannot flee, for you are next!