I hand you a museum.
It's like none other, forged by pen and paper rather than mortar and stone,
And a most beautiful place.
I watch as you walk down the halls lined with statues of my characters,
The fantastical images of everyone I was:
Warrior, pirate recluse,
And everything I hope to be:
Powerful, sagely...
Free.
You nod at me, clearly appreciative of my wordsmithing...
But wait.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY'RE FICTIONAL?!
YOU ARE READING
The Scraps of A Song: An Anthology.
PoetryPoetry spanning topics from love to pain, to addiction, to borderline insanity, to romanticism..in a disorder so strange it becomes an order all its own... The Pieces of Her, The Scraps of A Song.
