Unravelling the minds impression,
that finds life in a story.
the life that is twisted, contoured,
turned, shaped, cut and cured,
pouring out like lava,
from the story telling mind.
Finesse of language,
the gentle breeze that cools.
the enthusiasm, fine waves
that flow to kiss the story telling feet.
Energy it creates, as it flows out,
and goes behind the story telling reach,
the life that it derives seeks and attains,
an independence beyond denial,
of the story telling god.
The beginning and the trail may be preordained,
but the course revels in itself,
and for moments ephemeral,
tastes freedom,
joy unalloyed and then it surrenders to the will,
of the story telling master.
The master can’t but realise,
that the mouth piece was his,
but the voice was its own.
That the thought was his,
but the inspiration was its own.
The story telling master can’t but acknowledge,
that creation is far and beyond,
and can never be acclaimed as one’s own.
The story like a child, newborn,
momentarily dependent,
but ever its own.
A guest that dwelled for a moment,
in the mind of the story telling host.
The story which appears as his creation,
but in fact, was ever its own.