I sat beneath the Storytelling Tree
Where no one can hear the words,
Words that fill me with such glee,
Or the songs, the life, or the chords
That echo within me, and my heart,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
No one could hear my breaths,
Except for the tree I sing on.
No one could see my rests,
Except for the tree I lay on.
Holding me in it’s branches,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
It tells a story of it’s own,
This grand and sturdy oak.
One of where it’s grown,
But never voiced a croak.
Not often, it would speak to me,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Only on dry and warmer days
When the weather moved like waves,
Would the tree ever think to sway,
To speak with it’s rustling leaves.
Not my story, but its own,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
A tree as old as time alone,
It knows of all the older ages,
From walking fish to swords of stone,
Corrupt kings and future sages.
Any page from any chapter,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
On stormy days with ferocious wind,
Where branches break and fall,
In the Earth, dirt and branches bind:
A shrub shall grow with berries so small,
Colored yellow and sweet like candy,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Why is it these berries sprout,
From the branches of the sacred tree?
When pure bliss shall rush out,
And you shall truly feel worry free,
When the sweet bundle touches your lips,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
On a summer day, I asked for its lore.
The wind blew, the leaves shook,
And the trunk split to its core.
Inside there sat a single book.
I took a step toward the crack,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Sitting on a grainy pedestal,
The book was bound with leather.
Nonliving, though it seemed immortal.
Infinite, yet it was light as a feather.
I inched closer, enthralled by the pages,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Opening the leather, the pages were blank,
No trace of writing could be seen.
Staring at the parchment, I further sank,
Past, future, or somewhere in between.
My body went limp, my hands felt numb,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Surrounded by dirt and bones,
I sank like a snake in quicksand,
Only to erupt into thick vines
And a hole above that closed the land.
A new place, a new time,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Behind me was the same oak,
Younger, but still as old as time,
Though the scenery was more bleak:
Green moss, rotten smells, hanging grime
The same world or different, I did not know,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I heard animals cry in the distance,
Not one I had ever heard.
I watched the bushes dance,
And soon erupted a herd.
Velociraptors, circling me for dinner,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Panicked, I ran toward the bark,
Scratching, wailing, and pounding,
Begging it to reopen it’s split mark.
I looked back to see a demon charging.
I closed my eyes and ducked my head,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I felt no pain, nothing to hit my chest,
And looked up again to see a siege:
Knights and archers to finish their quest,
The city burning, praying for their liege
To end the chaos and starving,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
The trees above me swayed gently,
Almost as if laughing at its madness.
I reached up and tore a branch angrily,
Throwing it down, with wails of sadness
Echoing painfully in my ears,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
A great and fast wind roared,
Knocking me to the ground,
The Tree, full of pure hatred,
And I lay alone on a dirt mound,
Hoping not to be blown apart,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I raised my arms in defense,
And the howling winds stopped.
The leaves swayed and I winced.
Right then, the slate was wiped,
Spared by the power of the divine,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
Sitting to regain my composure,
The branches laughed again,
Where I wondered about nature,
If the sacred tree was even sane,
Or it wanted to watch the torture,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
A bough bent down to hold me,
Where with it brought a vision:
Life and death play their game,
Like chess in perfect motion.
Never-ending, but pawns dying,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
The board meant pieces will die,
Like knights caught in queen’s wrath,
But set to the side, a memento mori,
A constant reminder of other’s deaths,
But they will live on to watch the game,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
The vision ends and the bough lifts,
With tears falling slowly in my eyes.
A warming breeze blows so soft,
And whisks away my blues.
The torn branch begins to grow,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I pick a golden berry from the bush,
Place it in my mouth and only blink.
Shown is a new scene, and a rush,
Pure bliss, and I can only think
Of peace and tranquility,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
A sky of a red and yellow sunset,
Tiny waves lapping at my feet,
My mind being forever set
On finding peace so sweet
In my life, to relive this moment,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
My eyes close one last time,
And stare at a leather book.
No words, and yet chimes,
Of a perfect life, a peaceful look,
A glimpse into my dream,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I took a step back and smiled,
Where leaves smiled back.
Walking away, the tree was sealed,
Even more solid than a rock.
I remembered that same dream,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I came back the very next day,
Expecting a tree, but there was none.
Nothing was around to show a way,
As to where the tree has gone.
I could only hope of stories,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
I thought for a long while,
On where the tree went.
I could only sit and smile,
About the thought I spent.
Thinking about another day,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.
It must have gone to show a story,
Another one, to another person.
To show them their dreams or glory.
To give to a parent, daughter, or son.
To let them see a glimpse of dreams,
Beneath the Storytelling Tree.