storyteller.

you write myths like oedipus
curling imagery like cigarette smoke
in between parchment lines of
tales of royalty and folk.
rather be blind and borrow,
eyes than be possessed by greed.

and you would gladly throw,

pearls and diamonds and rubies

shining like a knight's armor,

up and up into the moving sky,

and let the cloud swallow up

the worthless jewels that fly by.

for you, the sky's sun melts
the lonely wind, so that it
may see the stories spinning
from your lonely little lips
for you, the moon hides
behind the whispered prayer
so that it may over hear
the words you long to sing.
and in the dim and dirty sea,
the urchin waits patiently for thee
to flow towards the waves like silk
upon a maiden's graceful back.
these tales like jewels upon your crown
carefully adorned like the most
precious of all known wealths
when all other wealth does drown.

but you, such giving you,
you place these stories on your skin
and let the earth bury you in,
you turn into water, fire, air,
the ground beneath and over there,

feel the cling of rocks and clay

form the curves of your bones, may

grass so green grow into your eyes

and flowers spout from your lips.

and soon all the tales you tell,
are free for all in the form of
a most perfect wishing well.