The Story Teller

She moves in red and lights the room. They see her hair in bloom, not wasting flames in doom her voice is meant to show the moon is out to play the night until, until, the end is soon, but keeps them wanting thrills and chills, of stories told. They hang on utters, baiting flutters, heartfelt words of bread and butters, oaked in solid earthern golds enriching minds with finds of old. They listen to her plays that make them wait and wait, red phoenix til its late. She holds them close til darkness passes, rapt in words she moves their glasses, worlds of art she paints the path, those stories to oasis.