They said a great story takes time,
Each word a step,
each pause a climb.
Not rushed by days,
nor forced by will,
It moves when all
is mellow, still.
It grows in moments left unsaid,
In mumbled hopes, visions we grasp.
For only time can let it turn.
And so I trust the hands unseen,
That weave through dark
what light may mean.
For when the story claims its place,
It leaves behind a trace, sublime.