Stories are told, in fits and starts
Shuffled, reorganized, and torn apart
And assembled again in a slightly new order
Sometimes longer and sometimes shorter
The characters remain, becoming foggy with time.
In fisticuffs with our memory to elicit the lines
Molded and tweaked in a manner so slight
Nobody will notice ... but somebody might
And gently correct you, or offer their version
Well-intentioned or otherwise, depends on the person
Is it clarification they want, or to cast aspersions?
Is it to sharpen our focus or to create a diversion?
The paths of our stories are never direct
They bob and they weave, they dodge and deflect
The plotlines opaque, like a stained glass haze
A little harder to see through with the passing of days
Folklore and truth often hard to discern
But the stories are told with little concern
We are fully aware that our adventures may drift
Somewhat off course like a derelict ship
Telling these tales is more about art
Comraderies, histories, abundance of heart
The passage of time and tales of yore
People in and out through a revolving door
Shouting into the void in a desolate plea
To ensure our aura and our energy
Will never fade into dark silence eternal
And burn in the depths of the hellfire infernal
The flickers of light from the yarns that we spin
Spread out to the world, we are immortal again
