To the Stories, From an Unwise Admirer

A bird lands

On a friendly perch

To recover from flying

Over endless miles,

And spreads its wings once more

To blithely wander on–

But the perch turns out to be

Inside a metal cage

With a one-way door.

Incarcerated.

.

A new little vine

With branches too weak

Climbs up a strong tree

With the dream to breathe free,

But realizes too late

That the tree was lattice-weave

And tricked the vine

So it tangled itself up.

Trapped.

.

The clouds grow heavy,

Drop low in the sky,

Relax into a gentle shower.

Its drops fall free

And laugh as they land,

Eager to rejoin in a happy stream–

Yet some do find

That they landed in a tub

Which offers no escape

To rejoin their kindred.

Stagnant.

.

Even so did you draw me in

With promise of rest after long work,

Release from heavy weights,

Strength to carry on–

You enticed me with your stories,

Your colors and tunes,

Your characters and clever plots,

Till my heart was wrenched

And my eyes wept

And the time outside flew by me.

Fruitless.

.

Bind me no more in your fantasy world

Of Time Lords and blue boxes,

Princesses and lanterns,

Iron suits and winter soldiers,

Archers and sheriffs,

Wands and hallows.

No, let me be

As the wild bird should,

As the creeping vine aught,

As the falling rain would.

Free.

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