A man told a story once
every day-
with vigor and exuberance-
and it would inevitably end in
laughter, and begin with a
as stories tend to do,
it altered its shape over time-
normalcy became cliffhangers,
and calm bore nail biters-
endings became beginnings-
until eventually, the tale became
unrecognizable from the original-
an indistinguishable collection
of nouns and verbs
with a guise even the author
wouldn’t notice-
the words made sense-
just conveyed a different message-
the story had taken a different
shape, as all tend to do when
told from a different mind-
there are so many different
incarnations of the same seed-
that it’s up to the reader to pluck
out the meaning-
because something has lost its
shape does not mean that it has
no shape*


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