Storyteller

The crowd looks on as he weaves his tale, taller and stronger 

You know it isn’t true……  But still you’re drawn in a fish on a hook

Need to see how the “truth, I swear it” fingers crossed behind his back,  

Ends.

Where, how, what you ask helplessly wriggling in your seat 

As the plot unwinds on a pathway so twisted 

His eyes twinkle amused by this audience who swear they don’t believe 

In magic.

Or in massive armies of one inch men who grow to giants at dusk 

So strong they could carry you away with barely a movement seen 

They don’t exist you say, but look for them secretly 

Anyway.

Of the magical lands visited and what he saw there, all alone 

You can’t take anyone there who doesn’t believe and nobody does 

So how can I show anyone monsters, demons, and sssssh the little men

Believe 

Loving to hear other tales that said his world of difference was true 

From as far back as I can recall he made me realise one thing 

That if just if I look further and delve deeper into everything 

Yes, I believe anyway in magic.
©Ailsa Cawley Poetry 2015

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