The rain was cold and nipped the skin,
The Thunder boisterous,
And the Lightning un-disciplined.
It teased the silver Guardian
While the thunder spoke in a lion’s roar
Of the approaching soul.
The Guardian raised its short snout
And the wistful soul, ignoring Lightning’s vexation,
Graced the Guardian’s leathered nose.
“I’m here for my story.”
Lightning shattered the Earth
And from the shattered Earth
Was birthed glass shelves
Who hands cradled precious
Bounds of paper.
The Guardian and the soul
Wandered through the paper jungle
Until the Guardian halted.
“Your story is here. You must find it.”
The soul passed his wistful fingers
Through rugged covers
Of royal blue
And magnificent purple,
Of jade and onyx,
And of honey and blood.
The soul selected white
And revealed it to the Guardian
Who felt unsure the soul had its story.
“This is it? Are you sure? Have you rummaged
Through the stories of adventure and romance,
Or perhaps you wish more
For peace than war?
Peace is what everyone desires
But none have the true desire to
Plant and allow it enough growht
Before it is chopped down by
The axe of war.
Warmongers and peacemakers
Choose their stories here also,
Though they comprehend nothing.
If this is your story, then you have chosen
The jungle was consumed back into the womb
Of its mother, leaving one of its children
behind. The soul held the story, now his.
There was nothing guaranteed. There were
No chapters to skip, no last page to
Turn to and spoil and rather
The silver Guardian raised
A silent paw to the soul
As he passed.
Lightning and Thunder
Resumed their hectic dance,
Each strike and roar an extension of another
Until they quieted and listened
To the wails of a newborn child
Beginning his first chapter
In a white story.