The Fictioneer

Fictioneer, inside shadows you show me both

Strange and foreign, nightmares and dreams

Your words wrap around inside my thoughts

While awake reaching inside each turned page

Something you paint a little different, drags

One in a fraction deeper, where your tale’s well

With its water, rises up another few inches, from

Where you placed that cross-member, the one

Its slow rotting timber, perhaps the only thing

Between living in this world or your invention

Your hand crafted story, did it break, split, or did

You have a character reach up from deep below

Ripping the timbers out from under to watch

How a reader’s struggle takes hold, fending off

Sleep and bitter cold air without a fire to stay

Awake, to make it through to your final page

Struggling with each gasp for air to avoid

Falling behind each player’s rapid reactions

To events far beyond their control in page time

Until finally, page bliss, collapse and the end

Out witted and out thought at every twist and turn

Art and artistry to a tempered heart and mind, the fictioneer.

4 responses to “The Fictioneer

    • Thanks… Reading on a cold night, where a dull light does little to cause darkness, but minor discomfort while inside a worded tale to a different world.

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