The tale lives within me,
the waves of its story
crash against the walls of my mind.
The collected breath of those
who beat against my doors,
flow past me in a gale.
There is a certain sort
of sadism involved,
as the power to give
life or death,
stares at me from the corners.
They are my paper children.
Should their lives be written,
would someone relate to the inner process
of their thoughts
or shall they forever stand alone
with only me to watch over them?

© Johanna Fugitt 2017