She writes of her dreams on every page of her book,
her mindless scribbling echoing in the day.
By night she sits by the fire reading her jumbled thoughts,
putting together fragments of images in her mind,
until they become a story she can tell,
to the friendly shadows that wait.
She beckons them to come closer,
the darkness where her friends hide.
You can see the blackness pressing in on her,
yet she smiles that knowing smile,
the fire from the hearth still glowing bright.
She opens her mouth to tell her tale,
of shadows that whisper old forgotten tales.
You can feel the darkness basking in delight.
She remembers them you see, especially how they came to be,
the darkness that you and I fear,
when we were young with imagination running free.
She speaks of forgotten lore and magic spells,
of languages long gone and broken,
threading her whispered tales upon the crackling flame,
the darkness slowly backing away.
For the night is done and her words are all slurred.
Tonight she will dream again and tomorrow she will write.
-The Elusive Scribe 020713-