Artichokes like Comets
A Story Must
The mahogany desk in the room,
Just like the desks of the past,
And a story builds within himself,
A story he can’t predict or delay.
The blank page sitting on the leather top
Invites him to sit down and write.
A story about yesterday or tomorrow,
A story from before his time.
The words start coming down,
Like a river bringing down rocks.
Rocks with words written on them,
Rocks with meaning and sound.
The Story will be written,
with or without Me, he thinks.
But why not share the words,
Words running down the stream.
The blank page welcomes his hand,
Will it be verse or prose, today or past?
His hand draws the letters one by one,
There’s no delaying, a story must.
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