In the Middle Part

story

It started well –┬áthe 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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Between the Lines

eyeliner macro

It’s true. Lines are

more prominent than

they used to be. But if

you will read between

.

them, you will enter

my world – dreams

and ever afters, knights

and clashes with wicked

.

tyrants, notes stashed

in bottles and tossed on

foreign shores. Between

these lines lies a

.

spirit-essence, a will,

a mind, a heart. Turn

the pages breathlessly

when suspense leaves

.

you hanging; linger long

where hope casts her

spell. Decode the jots,

decipher the plot

.

sketched out by

an author yet

unknown. Read me,

between the lines.

 

You’re Hard to Read

You’re hard to read;

complicated,

multi-faceted,

with cavernous depths untapped

by casual communication,

blotted missive,

dog-eared corners,

obscure references to images

buried in time and place,

needing a good dusting, an

Ephesian library.

What hidden treatise

lurks within your leaves?

You reduce me to an illiterate,

a picture-book primer to your Tolstoy;

what words do I use

to translate you to my heart?