Spontaneous Works of an Endless Dreamer (Poetry)

The Blank Storybooks of Unwritten Words

A book,

have a look,

half empty, half closed,

just a peak,

do not speak,

staring at their blank pages,

The words, their outrages,

trapped in the cages,

having double meaning, yet taken completely wrong.

~

Drifting and dancing, across the page like a song,

till it's gone,

with the beauty and delicacy of that of a swan,

then horror and fright, everything but delight,

yet the words never stop as they splatter the small piece of the whole,

leaving you shaking in terror, as they pierce through your soul,

though you fail to realize that they are just playing a role.

~

The words and their power, oh how they make you cower,

as you stare at their prisons of black and white.

But further down the tunnel is a little speck of light.

History, mystery, adventure, or suspense,

far beyond anything words could condense.

Pages upon pages you turn,

the meaning of these words you try to discern,

but to truly find their meaning, you must first look beyond the words.

And sure, even as you arrive at the dreaded last page,

That doesn't necessarily mean that that, is truly the end.

The details, together they mend,

But who are we to say what's the end, for what if this, is where the story begins?

~

Ever so changing, shifting like the winds

Or what if one thing small detail was altered, could this story still, in the end, fend?

The words may end for you maybe yes, but I wouldn't be too sure.

Words, words, what's in a word, what's their intent or task?

To know, all you need to do, is ask

And then, when you've looked hard enough,

Traveled to the earth's ends,

Seen the impossible,

Or peeked at the last page, when you thought nobody was looking, before even bothering to read the first,

Will you ever see the trends,

The toll,

The worst,

And only then, may you even begin, to see through,

Even the simplest word's mask.