Perchance when the story comes
it will be too large to tell
melting into uncharted oblivion
smirking like a wayward imp
melancholy writer laboring
chasing the end
finding the lost along the way
only to be singed
intermittently patching that story
with mystical fabric
the tale winds around a circuitous route
the omniscient voice deciding
lovelorn or love lost?
the plot treads
between two worlds
crossing into the unknown
the Muse smiles
then scampers off into the moonlit night
the plot escalates
then decides to fall
perhaps there is
no story at all….
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