The Story Teller
So much came to depend upon the past,
what he thought had happened, all seen
with increasing clarity, all losing
the distortion of his early lies
about family, legends, his own powers.
Before long, once upon a time became
"it was" until finally he could not separate
dreams from happenings, ceased to care
as the imagined life flowed onto paper,
rang like small clay bells in the ears
of audiences and in the midst of long years
he grew to be, what he had one thought to be.
Poem by Keith Wilson copyright 2003
from the book: Night and Its Secret Songs
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