A traveler one must be
To know as much as ye.
A spinner of tales and folklore
Opening the minds for more.

How old must one be
To amass as much as ye?
Is there a way that one such as I
Could speak and open the mind’s eye?

An apprentice though I am
I cannot fathom a life I have not seen.




A world I cannot dream,
A world where you have been.

To be several voices at once
A master must you be.
A shadow in your presence
When tales are spun from thee.

Tales I weave at my own pace
Yet how bland in comparison to the feast.
My stories are but cotton on one’s face
And yours are the finest silks from the East.








When off we set into the world
I gape and stare and gawk.
Yet these are things you have seen before
And studied like a hawk.

As I learn the ways of a storyteller
More tales I seem to tell.
You stand beside me as a pillar
And my fears gradually quell.

As years come and go, I too gain knowledge and become a master
As equals we walk the road and spin the tales faster.


Yet age does my master gain
And his tales are laced with pain.

Soon I am on my own
To weave the tales all alone.
Until one day a wide-eyed boy
Approacheth me with unbridled joy.

So the tale begins again
With a different youth who can bend
The tales a new way as I did as a young feller
And become a true storyteller.