The Storyteller

Perhaps this time, the storyteller
Is the story to be told.
The chosen one from prophecies
In legends brewed in gold.

Perhaps it's time the story goes to
The traveller in the dark,
The one with magic in her soul and
The one that bears the mark.

With her silver tongue and ink-stained hands
She weaves together worlds,
From a distant thought to a broken man
She makes of hardened girls.

Behind the studded warriors
There is no heart of stone,
Just someone with a coloured lens
And a clock that's made of bone.

Perhaps, it's time, the storyteller
Has a story of her own.
Where she rules lands and takes down men
Who don't deserve the throne.

Perhaps, it's then she'll see just how
Her pages have been scorned,
With words struck out, unfinished thoughts
And people unadorned.

Maybe then,
She'll set down her pen,
And her story will begin.

Syeda Erum Noor is dangerously oblivious and has no sense of time. Send help at erum.noor1998@gmail.com