A long time ago

When I wasn’t quite five feet tall,

All I wanted

Was to write tales for all;

I hoped I would be

A teller of stories

Both ancient and mod;

That my stories would be

A harbinger of hope,

That I could be

Through each story,

A generous giver

Of abundant laughter

And much more

In the realms

Of all that brings

A glow

To the countenance.

Well, I hadn’t reckoned,

With destiny;

So the writing

Never quite took off,

In fact, along the way

It brought home

Some ignominy

And much heartache;

But what do the stories

The lay buried

Deep within my heart

Know anything,

About any of that?

All they care,

Is to burst forth

Like a thousand bats

Out of a dark cave

At nightfall,

Unleashing the rage,

The angst and the despair,

Of having been locked up

For so long,

Utterly forgotten;

But they are mangled,

And they’ve blended,

One into the other

And the other into some more;

So much so,

That they’ve metamorphed,

Into the dark and the gory

Of a mirthless horror story.

Image Credit: Photo by Ian Livesey on StockSnap