The Storyteller

The days are wan, 

Strained thin through

A fine mesh screen, their

Grit and magic gone.

The threads of reality

Worn bare, their

Wispy fragrance memories

Of once never times.

And we sit, we see,

We observe, we reach for

The strings wafting loose

Drifting about our face.

We cast out at one,

Draw it across, to touch

Another, bring it back again

Weave these threads to.

More and more pulled

Together, filaments woven

True, that which was

Apart rendered anew.

From the faded, fast

Invisible emerges something

New, a new story, a

New story of wholing.

This it is, and this

I am. I am the 

Storyteller, with my 

Pen weave worlds.

The Storyteller, writing

The world whole again

Upon the blank void invokes

"This is the world"

And so the world is.