— O Mr. Storyteller, won't you weave another tale for me? —
I judge people by how haunting a ghost they could be.
I judge wrong most of the time,
Most turn out to detest the idea of haunting people
Who used to be and will soon be their kin.
Nice of them I suppose,
But terrible for business, since I have this whole gimmick where
I judge people by how haunting a ghost they could be.
They love me nonetheless.
Still cannot decide whether they should or not.
They ask me how they were in life,
And I lie. I lie because I never knew them.
They know not to ask the right questions,
And all the answers I do know happen to be wrong.
Do not cry for me when I go,
The ghosts have reserved that role,
I asked them
To not cry for me when I come,
They indiscreetly hung up.
I screamed their name, they picked right up. Old habits die hard,
Especially when their killers are already dead.
I told them I loved them.
They told me they don't anymore.
I don't trust the living, and now hate the dead, so now
I judge people by how haunting a ghost they could be.
— O Mr. Storyteller, are you worthy of your title? —
I drank a sea with a plastic straw.
That's it, and that's all.
What? You say that is no story?
Why, for there are no seekers of glory?
No tyrant to overthrow,
No damsel of sorrow?
You must forgive me then, for I
Am no storyteller in your eye.
I scaled a mountain of corpses.
There atop it, I befriended a troll.
That's it, and that's all.
Why, is that not a story?
Now is it far too gory?
It is not universal, no,
But must my creatures be market-approved?
Do I have to cater to them all?
You must forgive me then, for I
Am no true tale-weaver of lies.
Come sit, I will tell you true a tale,
A truth yours and yours only to believe.
A truth that will be your truth, and leave
You with no consternation of my status.
So it begins,
We were light and shadow, the two of us
(Not you and I, this character and I, such
Are the perils of a foreign language)
Inseparable though from other sides of the ledge
That divided the mountain we called home.
Go up there, and you will still find my tomb.
I was on the back foot, I did not mind,
If you such light had, you would march behind
All your life too.
Then, ship lost rudder. I was subject to murder.
Oh, no, It doesn't hurt much now, have grown
Used to a dagger against my chest, rather
Feel emptier inside when it is early morn,
And it is not there.
Light trudged on, light did not look back,
Else light would have been blinded by
Light's own radiance. Hence light moved on.
You find it despairing, I call it a red herring.
What happened to me must not occur
Again to anyone else, is all I wish for.
You find it plastic, and that be too drastic
An insult to a storyteller, so please,
A story is a negotiation, not a checklist.
A bond that be between bard and bearer
Of the burden of the narrative, a bond
Of light and shadow, a bond of you
And I. Stab me with a dagger,
You will come back by dusk I wager.
Tale is life, negotiation is sustenance.
No heroes and villains and swords
Can steal my tale and your truth.
It is a red herring, despair, for
It is as plastic as my lies,
Yet it is as real as plastic.
— O Mr. Storyteller, are you so lonely? —
It is a dark that invites.
Come and join me, please;
I am in need of company
Apart from these seas
Bottled up in a cauldron
In which boils a broth.
Pass me some cumin,
And a dash of sloth.
Your blanket has space for one,
Wrap it round yourself,
I'll get you a pillow, and
Sew up the loose threads.
Time for tales. Tales are
As much sustenance
As the broth, they are
Food with consequence
Since they force you to feel.
The stars huddle up close,
They are immature listeners,
They prefer tales of those
Much older than them,
Nought wrong with that.
But they are regulars, you
Are new, and keen at that.
Tell me what you desire,
What flavour you covet,
And I will fill your belly with
My make-believe puppets.