I fell hard, such is the consequence of a colorful lure
Flickering in shallow water lit by hope
the world was messy, like a thirsty rag soaked with blood
still not gaining sustainence
sickness an albatross, urging me to frail edge
I had yet to learn that words can possess no value
be simply pretty things, we are misled by like Xmas baubles, turned over to reflect pattern
how can a writer realize, words can be emptier than a hollow tree?
people who write them, do so with convincing candor all enveloping like hard sales pitch
it’s impossible to believe they’re just words, without meaning, or worse, deliberate opposite
of truth, that sparten ideal, sucking ice for nourishment
when the wet ass hour comes, and it always comes
those who stay, are not those who wrote long entreaty
not the flatterers, cake-bakers, trumpet players
they are usually the last you’d believe, quiet, unobtrusive leaves coloring your floor
when your loud friends have quit you, it is they who step up and inquire
are you okay? Do you need help?
I learned this directly, as if fed by a poisoned spoon 
the ache of losing louder voices and reward of quiet ones, whom you didn’t believe cared
because you listened for the caucophany and wordsmiths who
know their trade as story tellers, so very, well
and I, who also wrote stories, fell hook, line and sinker
for the best of tales
the one where it’s all about them, and if you fall short you’re out
why it took so long to see, the value of things as they stand
plain in the rain, but firm of foot
is down to the fanciful nature I had
before damp veil was torn off and sickness
cast her long net and kept you underwater without purchase
in that drowning you learned, the only lesson worthy of a mortal
it will not be those who come, bearing gifts, cherry lipped
it will not be those who say; you are wonderful, adorable
it will be the person who seems aloof and speaks volumes
because sometimes a story teller is just that
a teller of stories without depth, milking our need 
they do not stay when you reach out, just the length of the tale
long or short, it always comes to an end and then
they go on to the next book and you are left
dangling with pretty words, tied in useless bouquet
now I don’t know what to call myself
“recovering” of some sort of fairytale lure
and in that recovery I find the simple joy 
of people without tall stories
This is to thank so much all those magical folk I did not know would step up and to acknowledge those who spoke loudest and did the least by way of mercy. Each to your own I learned and I grew.