The Storyteller

A Poem by Dean

He writes with finger in the air.
Letting words assemble,
monoliths of memory
to glide across the space of years,

He seizes them; lifts contaminating crumbs of wretchedness.
Makes of them a path to walk upon,
detritus of the war we hardly noticed
in the heat of battle.

He draws out wisdom from the color world of legend
far and new, where truth abounds,
where liberated consciousness
may fly around the halls of justice as
an orb of purity, a precious legacy
to nurture and to prize.

He knows the stuff of myth,
imaginings benign in power,
unconscious of despair.
He is a servant god,
bereft of jealousy,
beyond mere personhood,
only he enables with a stroke
a rush of hope...a history of peace.

And we, encircling the light,
draw closer to the fire in fasciation;
we can see the light,
embrace its offered choice--
to travel down the tunnel of conformity,
or take the stairway
to a world beyond!