Clocking in, your storyteller online,
Uploaded on your computer,
Riddled and rhymed with wine,
A story to tell, laced with black,
A grim tale from the tombs of fantasy,
We should live and not forget,
Where twilight twinkles.
And imagination is divine,
A coating of fear gasping in time,
A solar sun implodes into a hole,
An abyss so deep it will devour us whole,
The universe is immense we are ants in view,
Smaller and insignificant we pass away,
Time ticks and tests us every single day,
We are all living a fragment of an epoch,
Damaged from the effects of laser rays,
Fear has clothed us in racist thought,
Not trusting thy neighbour,
Indignity for you, shaming us all,
We share the same values me and you,
The storyteller is here,
To pull us all together,
No matter where you live or your beliefs,
He does not write for one gender,
He definitely does not write for just one creed,
He posts to all, this poetic sender,
He does so for art and never for greed,
He is the eye to the future,
While bridging the past,
He is at the forefront of technology,
Maybe in other areas he is last,
But does that really matter, in words he wanders,
He is normally at his wit’s end,
And this is when he writes at best,
Twisting and turning, forging new verse,
Spurting and screaming intent,
Bouncing and blundering words perverse,
He could be what you call hell-bent,
Dancing with the devil in the halls of the Vatican,
Writing works of art in a haunted graveyard,
Reading history in the passages of the future,
Flying high without leaving the ground,
Most people will find no sense in his ramblings,
They prefer to ramble on and walk away,
Most people do not see the hidden messages,
He inserted between the walls of hearsay,
Whatever nonsense he writes,
Between the fruits of memory,
There will grow no lie,
He prefers to pluck the truth,
From the over ripe grapevine,
We don’t need a reason why,
This storyteller will fling you into new dimensions,
And give you a new view on old tales,
Painting the morbid life of scurrier ants ,
As they selfishly continue and prevail,
Breaking the rules with a whiff of fresh air,
Sparks from the pen to set light to your page,
Tales said in a whisper, described delicately,
Others with a thunder in the throat or pure rage,
Not breaking a sweat in reciting the news,
Just got excited as he says it to you,
Glad for listening eyes and inquisitive ears,
Topping up your knowledge like fresh pork pies,
Satisfying your hunger for drama,
Wetting your appetite,
Pushing you on your way in the morning,
And stopping you from crashing into the night,
This storyteller is fragile and needs keeping together,
Believing his words are never digested,
But slowly and surely some ears are ready to listen,
They cannot wait to hear those grim tales,
Pushing this storyteller for more,
With pride in his heart and the strength to keep on,
His words will be stronger than before,
Elaborating phrases that are sweet to taste,
Crafting spells from words to place on your plate,
A recipe for disaster or a pick me up in the morning,
Some poems are sweet, some are a warning,
As time passes and the words become more clear,
Writing poetry from his heart,
So tell me reader what do you wish to hear?
Should he now go back to the start?
The storyteller growing in confidence,
As he can see joy in the words he has written,
The pen can never be discarded,
As the art of the verse has been tasted and bitten,
As the road through the forest of literature,
Is discovered and uncovered for him to walk,
Into the cool inviting shadows of a forest of wisdom,
The trees cloak you with astuteness and security,
The route is firm and pulls you through the ferns,
Leading you and pushing you down the right path,
Old friends now jealous but he will have the last laugh,
Now lost in sight and the storyteller has disappeared,
But never forgotten, no matter what was written,
The storyteller has become greater than the words on the page,
Not bad for a scruffy asshole full of rage!
©Darren Hobson July 2014