The Writer's Tale

Follow me in ghost form
Use your imagination to float away…
To follow me
The spinner of words
Away into the dusky distance

I am but the tongue this spiel is communicating through
The scribe to the world and its many different colours
Do not think this mess of words has anything to do with me
Just a messenger
Am I
Spreading the word of a darkening existence
Tomorrow falls today
Today seems too much like yesterday
I am the timeless one
Longevity granted by eternal words.

Not Mother.

Not Father.

Not Daughter.

Not Son.

Not Sibling.

Not Stranger.

Not Lover.

Not Enemy.

Not Friend.

Not Foe.

Not Ying.

Not Yang.

I am the neutral narrator
The grey areas in which stories spin heartily
Like a painter I make portraits of pawns
In a landscape of lunacy
I only paint clothed nudes, however
Bearing the whole truth and nothing but the truth
In a cloak woven from silvery lies
Contradiction is my playground
However mature I may seem
Am I this?
Am I that?
Who made the words for me to play with?
Who made it so that my educated pen would always defeat a violent nature?
As I ponder the mysterious of
My shrinking universe
You, my captive audience
Will die before my babies of print fade
Follow the call of my written piper’s song

I am the walking redundant
But never, in fact
A Modern Cliché