THE STORY TELLER

THE STORYTELLER

The Storyteller

carved from a popular tree that fell in my yard during hurricane season

Tell me a story blind man for you are the Storyteller.

Tell me about the darkness

and how it sheltered you in its womb,

and pitied by all.

Tell me of the water.

What did you see?

Greed in the hands of power.

A glance the other way.

Did it hurt knowing the truth?

Perhaps that is why you are blind.

Tell me of the skies,

the beautiful charcoaled sunsets,

the hazy blanket of smog and the cold damp afternoons.

Were the toxins gentle on the animals?

Were you also blind to this?

From the holes of useless bile did remorse crave to see

that which I was forced to remember.

How can the Storyteller describe

the blistering flesh burnt onto the skulls.

The billions.

The stench.

The young spitting into my face as I ravaged their bodies.

Tell me.

Please tell me, Storyteller!

At your bedside I did read to you

whispered the tired old man.

Not a prouder father one could find.

Though blind to images of your world,

I saw with my hands and loved with my ears.

I tell you in honesty and in pain,

wept the old Storyteller.

What I did I did for you.

And to wear the crown of thorns

I would do all over again.

What I did I did from love,

I did for you.