The Only Way A Story Dies

Photo by Sweetaholic | pixabay.com

The only way a story dies
is when we refuse to tell it.
When we shut it up within
our bones and place our hands to hide
our mouths, we kill the word, we mute
the mind and wander in the fog
of self-imposed dementia.
To refuse the narrative
that transcends is to deny
reality and thereby give
credit to the desperate Scot
who would not see beyond his own
tragic tale, the story told
not by a fool, but instead
a teller who filled the void
with a deeper view unseen.
The story always thus appears.
The preacher understood it well
enough to know that though it all
seemed absurd, the emptiness
would dissipate in the face
of love. The story thus is told,
forever and ever, world without end.