Storymaze
by Odin Roark

Starting is simple.
Blank sheet of paper.
Pen in hand.
And then…

Coffee gets old.
Afternoon quiet.
A doodle here.
A doodle there.
Tired eyes.
Time for a nap.

Invisible demons chase you
into the indelible labyrinth,
the pen your only weapon,
thorn bushes your constant enemy,
snagging defenses that unravel,
a thread at a time.

Many threads drag behind,
as trust in eventual freedom
always just up ahead,
maybe inspiration to the right,
a word to the left,
plot line at the next turn,
a back story to your rear,
twisting,
turning,
believing,
for as long as it takes.

Finally you admit nakedness,
unable to go any further,
another defeat with only one way out.

You pick up a thread,
knowing your demons are always willing,
to lead you back to where it always begins.

Holding hands with your incubus,
you discover writers thrive in a monstrous pop-up book,
a perpetual confinement of obstacles and challenges,
proffering manic compulsion to find direction,
choose the turn that reveals the letters,
words,
sentences,
paragraph,
pros or verse,
escape or forever a lifer.

Funny how we wake up,
crumple the white paper,
gaze beyond,
wait…
Oh, the waiting…

Then…

A new piece of paper
becoming either a hedge cutter
or a new pair of hiking boots,
your preparation for those inevitable heavy eyelids,
transporting you back to your life of paradox,
that place you know is there,
your very own immutable storymaze,
the captivity you welcome,
knowing you’ll find a way out.

And you do…eventually.