A Story
Frantic scrambling as the man writes on his parchment.
He tells of an epic
A masterpiece
His magnum opus
And as the swelling orchestra rises
His words grow powerful
Mountains crumble at a flick of his hand
With terrible power
He creates and erases worlds at a whim
He tells of far off places, dark beasts,
Fair maidens
The most noble hero
And the most diabolical villain
The pages upon pages turn into gibberish
But it matters not
The great saga continues
Scribbles evoke tears
The incomprehensible mishmashes of shapes and lines sing of power and tragedy
Creating languages
Cultures
He writes of famines
And droughts
He writes of triumph
And of failure
He writes of the extinction of all life
And then the rebirth of it
The choirs and orchestra boom
Frantically singing
As the man madly writes grabbing the quill so tightly he bleeds
Eyes bloodshot
He tells of unfathomable beings
Eldritch gods of unbelievable power
Of forms so mind bendingly great that it is maddening
He writes of apocalypses
Worlds engulfed by celestial flame
He writes of the searing fury of an unforgiving god
He writes of sacrifice
He writes of the end of all
Blackholes dying
He writes of galaxy eating monsters
He writes truth
Many truths
All conceivable truths
And all conceivable lies
Written down
Every story that has, will ever, and will never be told
The man writes
He writes everything
And at the end
When the crescendo of all crescendos crashes down like a dying star
He takes the parchment
The record of Reality itself
And burns it
And then picks up his gun
And turns it on himself
No man should have to know this
Because when all stories have been told
What is the point of telling another?
Many of my pieces of poetry are the result of me listening to music. This one for example was a compilation of classical, very specifically, "Night on bald mountain" by Mussorgsky
