In the Middle Part

story

It started well –¬†the action’s pace

And characters behaved.

The dialogue was natural,

Each scene what reader craved.

The villain entered right on cue,

But there, the thickened plot

Unravelled all the ends at once,

Derailed your train of thought.

You turn the pages, heart in throat,

Each word spells tragedy;

The flyleaf didn’t caution you,

Predict your destiny.

The Witches charm, Deep Evil lurks,

The Wrong upsets the right;

The Bad Guys go from Worse to Foul,

And Dark absorbs all light.

Anxiety hits fevered pitch,

But each word you devour

Reveals more loathsome characters,

Or strips you of your power.

In anguish, trembling fingers clutch

The closure that’s been penned;

You must, you must, you must find out

What happens in the end.

But oh, dear reader, pause a while,

Breathe every phrase in peace;

You’re only in the middle part,

Where havoc is released.

Your anxious soul would skip this bit,

To save your heart from harm –

But if you skim this episode,

You’ll miss your story’s charm.

The overthrow of villainy,

The chains that break in time,

Heroic actions, victories

That kill each awful crime.

So slow it down and read each word,

Your story is not done;

This chapter is not you, my friend –

Your best is yet to come.

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She Dug

Dig

It wasn’t her mess.

She never asked

to be buried alive.

She didn’t even own a shovel.

But her desire to see sunlight

grew strong,

flexed hope like muscles

rippling, horses straining

at the foreign taste of metal

on tender tongues

with dreams of churning hooves,

tasting island sun

like Freedom

coursing through wild veins.

She dug

until bare fingers

left rivulets of red

on bunkers of blue steel.

She dug

until she ached with cold,

fatigue festering like ulcers,

disillusionment stalking

in blizzard’s cloak.

She digs still –

for, having seen a glimpse

of sapphire sky,

her soul will not

consent to being

buried.

And She Wrote

new chapter

She cracked the spine

and reflected upon

its glaring whiteness

with accelerated pulse,

intruder in paradise.

*

Frowning, she discarded

several nibs, stuttering

chicken scratch on

hotel stationery before

selecting an instrument

suited to her purpose,

ink which swelled

like forever tides on a shore

of sea-spun glass.

*

Pen paused over paper,

footfall unwilling to mar

the perfection of powdered sugar,

undisturbed beach

sweet in its virginal rest.

*

But her story begged,

cajoled,

dictated an ending –

and she began in a tremble

to add the denouement

*

with strokes grown firm

as words poured, splashed,

filled page

after page

after page,

deliberately crossed t’s

and dotted i’s lapping,

emboldened tidal waves,

characters

and plots and twists

painting her legacy

on sandy canvas.

*

And still she wrote,

late into the night,

knowing that every error

could be edited out,

every encounter

re-worked to melt

seamlessly, sunset into sea,

a story only she

could write.

*

And she wrote.