A Story’s Meaning

I'll ask you this once, and only once:

Are you real?

I ask this only because you can sometimes be

The worst thing that ever happened to me

When I'm sitting in the bloom of the pink cherry tree

Racking my brains for a well thought play

Or a whisper of a chronicle trying to get away

I hold the fleeting words like a mother cradling her child

Like a bird feeding the best cuts of meat to its wrinkled hatchlings

But they vanish so easily like a wolf gone wild

We, we are of the wolf blooded, you and me

We seek the stories of old, from Flamel's immortality

To soothing spiders connecting teardrops of silver to form

Something radiant, something humble

To a girl's twisted foot, finding purchase on a war-strewn ground

No matter how hard the fall, or the pain, or the stumble

To apothecaries hunting murderers and a round-eyed boy on a broomstick 

The words are like catching fireflies, connected with time and dusky gold

Bringing together brothers and sisters, misfits and quitters, by the ever-burning wick 

Of flickering, fading, forlorn letters dancing to make phrases

Narrating "The Life and Times of...?"

You see? This is why the fantasies, once so fair, swoop like the mourning dove

When others crane their necks to peer at our worm, with sharp appraises

I wilt like the first green bud of spring. Like April, turning to fly away again

Because sometimes, the words don't connect for me; they flutter towards the Forgotten Plane

But when they do burn bright like the flares of eternal flame

So many stories can be told across our world - to make people, not a game.