Not the Card Game

Once upon a rhyme,

I fell for a scroll

–not the dead Sea kind–

who

tip-tapped

tip-tapped

her way

into my heart

—which grew like a Grinch

around Christmas—

until 3

diss’s

—times a thousand–

altered placement

a change no

pumpkin-turned-coach

could correct

only the scroll herself

could re’right outcome

–a shift she attempted

by furling

—a rookie mistake—

by pointing

—so rued—

and good ole’ misdirection

—she got lost; a problem on accounta’ a low-carb diet—

until one day, that scroll

added pages–

pages & pages of brand new

storyline

she’d resisted

—at least thrice—

since scroll had always worked autonomously in

antiquated tower, lacking even the most fundamental cell reception

a storyline

–as old as it was new—

including bit players,

and background,

subtext

and sojourn,

beginning in the middle

and branching out

–side to side—

scroll became a book

without artifice

—but plenty of made-believe—

which cover intrigued

and hid nothing all

at once

. . .

upon

a

rhyme.