Sometimes I miss those years long gone,
When one book’s word was Gospel.
When people were just good or bad,
When morals were no concept.
But, pity me! I loved my books,
Perhaps more than there was reason.
I read and read and through their eyes
I saw the golden lines
That tie one’s lies to another’s truth.
A story’s not alive unless told,
But never two tellings are the same.
The crinkle of paper, the smell of ink,
The only constants in a mad dream.
The knight in black armour that as a girl,
I was both frightened and allured by,
Now to a woman he returns, still same,
Now called an archetype.
Animus, Trickster, Shadow self,
Serpent and Traitor, Villain, Antihero,
What does it matter what he’s called?
He haunts my every step, my djinn familiar.
From midnight’s furtive reads
To bookstore chance encounters
To hidden corners in a library,
Reading lists, modules, projects.
Some have to search for what their calling is,
Mine has been ramming at my door.
In the end all stories need be told
And even the condemned do need a voice.
