Tale of the Past
The words on the paper, from whence do they come?
Rounded, straight, and over the lines, they appear.
Here on this pale paper before my eyes,
No hand guides them, yet even now they form.
Scritch, Scratch, the pen glides across the page,
Leaving behind glimmering black ink,
Which shines with impossible light.
Could it be a phantom who writes?
A soul with a tale to tell?
For that is what is written,
A tale of life once lived.
Spanning youth to old age,
A tale from the past,
As it seems to me.
And what a tale!
But why now,
Before the end,
By unseen hand,
Our pasts written down?
Why on this paper,
This pale paper here,
Is our history told?
Why of all before me?
Is it a test or a quest?
To myself I can keep it,
Or to others I can share it,
This once unknown information.
Here are old and new secrets revealed,
By fantastical means before me.
Yet they are not mine to share with the world,
I think I should just ignore these strange words.
Yet despite my thoughts, I read and I research,
And as I have for decades, I share the tale.
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This Poems Story
My first attempt at a narrative poem in a style I made up. The story just popped into my head and I had to put it down in words.