At the story's finish,
The author's fingers are itchy.
Dry ink troubles her.
She won't sleep tonight,
Wondering about her work
Roaming in the night.
When starlight drenches,
It is pliable again,
And out of her hands.
Will it be the same
In the light of a new day?
Or has it improved?
Do night's adventures
Change tales the same as authors,
Merging under stars?
Reckless and wild,
Both author and ink run free.
Becoming tales, untold.
She must let it dry,
Stop, and let the tale run on.
The End is the end.
But there will be more
Stories that fetch her to worlds
Where authors are changed.
Worlds of endless words
Where wild is the standard,
And ink cannot dry.
No comments:
Post a Comment