The Narrator (Poem)

Seeking, drifting, wandering.
Nothing to hold.
A character, strolling up
and waving a chubby hand.
Naming it,
It becomes real.
From the Telling
It grows like a tree.
But locked away,
not just it withers.
Drifting and lost.
Not knowing where to stand,
reaching out to us
to be known
and we come to know ourselves.
Missing pieces, we grieve.
To the Telling Tree,
struggling to breath.
They come.
Forms vague, seeming distant.
Trying to make them out.
Faded, blurred and grey.
Vapor and ash,
no real structure.
Back away.
Vile, twisted, dripping.
Turn away!
Don’t look back!
The secret truth:
not telling
damned them here;


Posted on November 21, 2015, in Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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