Our Favorite Stories
The bookshelves burst in our youth
Too many stories. How can they all be?
Perhaps, you dared look inside
to prove the pages weren’t blank
Each a setting, a beginning, an end?
So, young minds favor pictures over words
Pictures give us space and are rife with potential
Text can be cold and absolute
Two words don’t exist that rival the eminence of THE END
As I became more acquainted with time
There was room for nick nacks on those shelves
Some of my favorite stories came to an end
Those I kept closest
The feeble back covers shut, producing a hollow thud
Emitting a final breath from the pages between
This called into question my own story
Where is the dog ear in this volume?
How many pages away is my END?
Who is turning these pages?
is it the cloak and scythe?
is it the great universal power?
Or do I finger each page?
Am I the reader or the writer?
If it is my hand doing the leafing, do I feel the folio?
Do I marvel at the fibers that make up each page?
Do I appreciate the sharp edge and the smooth sheet?
Do I notice the nuance of font, the space between the letters, the use of italics?
Life is a first draft we share with the world
Before long we are surrounded by endings
One after another the books close
The feeble thuds become a metronome
An approaching guest and our last acquaintance
The guide whose intentions are hooded
But whom knows the only path to Evermore
We have come to read and write
We’ve come as creator and destroyer
If we choose to
We may yield the power of Moirai
Let us spread the ink and gather the thread