every story with a thousand
variations and perspectives,
sometimes faulty versions
based on threads of truth
so fragile they'd evaporate
if ever sunshine hit them.
I gravitate to sunlight, almost always,
but a cave can be quite nice as well.
Solid rock supporting weary bones.
Hidden water dripping somewhere
in the dark, the hope of satisfaction
that will quench my thirst but not
just yet. I need to rest a bit,
accumulate some comfort
in the dampness
and the silence of my
tale. It isn't time to tell it.
The characters have all arrived.
The plot's in place.
The ending, though -- unsure.
(c) 2022, Ellen Gillette
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