FABLE Poem: It Begins, by Andrew Elsten

A tower’s moonlit window alcove, and a boy alone in thought,
beneath the evening’s dewy glisten and the scent of willow rot.

With pen in hand, a boy endeavors, to erect his fantasies
unto a page where moments prior, hadn’t laid a single thing.

With maidens fair, and soldiers brave, and mighty dragons called by name,
he’d bring them there into his world. He knew the power words contained.

So he began his epic story, a boy of age, unlike himself,
who knew one day he’d live the greatest stories boys could ever tell.

Set out on horseback in the countryside, as soon as he can climb,
perhaps a stepstool toward the saddle, after all, he’s only nine.

With heavy gallops toward the tavern, windswept blond and leather mail,
perhaps a chat with local ruffians would spark an epic tale.

“You can’t come in here.” A toothy scowl met the boy as he stepped in,
a smile crossed his lips before “A couple silver says I can.”

He sipped an ale and listened closely to the rumors passed around,
by barmaids, soldiers, widowers, and anyone with grief to drown.

. . .

Some months had passed arresting thieves, of traveling, curtailing crime,
and on his journey out of town, an aging paper caught his eye.

“Reward”
They’ve taken our sweet princess captive,
deep inside a dragon’s keep,
Excitement leapt within his chest, “now THAT’s just what this journey needs.”

And he set out toward her captor, fiery hot, and scaly green,
a craggy cavern burned and black into a tower quite pristine.

His trusty steed made double time,
he sensed the small knight’s urgency.

Past carriage wrecks and bandits foul, he leapt ahead most gracefully.

Through forests vast, and deserts hot, they voyaged onward tirelessly
into a mountain range surrounded by a frigid, untamed sea.

“Stay here”, he whispered softly, tying tight his brilliant steed
“It’s not the best, I know,” he whispered as he tied him to the tree.

“I’ll be back soon, but now I’m off” he said whilst heading toward the crag:
a silver sword, a rope, a helmet, and the apples in his bag.

When nightfall fell, ahead he saw what looked like rhythmic bellowed flame,
and he set onward, steps away, the hole from whence the fire came.

He crept in silently behind the dragon from the evening fog.
You see, a boy so small, so quiet. No one’s more perfect for the job.

“Unhand her, beast!” The boy would shout, waking the dragon’s deepest sleep,
a mortal duel to then ensue, secured the dragon’s swift defeat.

And with her chamber key in hand, the jovial boy leapt up the stairs,
threw open wooden doors atop a tower housing maidens fair.

A princess young and beautiful awaiting brilliant knights was she,
jumping into his mighty arms, they made their way most happily.

. . .

He’d soon fight wizards, werewolves, drunkards roughing up the local girls;
he’d save ‘most everyone in every single corner of the world.

Minstrels, they sang of dragons slain, princesses saved, a boy-knight-king
and he would ride the countryside giving the poor the wealth it brings.

He’d be the best young knight there was, he’d marry yet that princess fair,
and they’d have dozens, if not hundreds, children born with golden hair.

It was a brilliant tale indeed, one day he knew he’d tell to all,
give hope to every boy who reads, who stays inside, afraid to fall.

. . .

His dream soon faded in the glass, his sleepy eyes lost in the pane,
his bedroom window, huge and darkened, covered wet by all the rain.

Hours had passed since he began his story, hours into night,
and just a sliver left of blue, all that remained of evening’s light.

He lit a tiny tealight candle, hoped to write his story’s end
and deeply sighed looking upon the pages scattered in the wind.

Such vivid reverie, a dreamer’s curse, the innocence of trance,
to see so lucidly the trees of old, where woodland fairies dance.

This writer boy, now saddened deeply to indulge a fleeting whim,
as after dreaming countless stories,
he’d only written “It begins”.