Once upon a time,
there was a man who made stories come to life.
A man who knew the power of words
and weaved whole worlds with them.
He weighed each letter, each syllable,
each golden sentence on his tongue
before he let it go,
drifting through the air,
rising, falling, twirling and floating
until it reached his captivated audience.
He could walk into a room full of people
and within moments of starting his story
there would be silence.
His words could wind through a room
smoke swirling slowly on a still summer day,
or they could explode,
A spark lighting a fire so ferocious
you could feel its heat burning you from the inside.
One night, he read to me.
I pulled a book off my shelf and he opened it wordlessly,
taking a moment to transform into the storyteller,
and then he began.
The letters on the page meant nothing to me
but suddenly they were alive,
a shimmering world surrounding us,
a kingdom of our own making.
His voice was soft but rich,
painting a new night sky overhead, lighting up new constellations,
and I sat, transfixed, and listened.