The greediness of the writer

It is more than ironic
that I ask the reader
to consider
for a moment
the greediness
of the writer
who wants more than you ears
who wants all
of your attention
more than your heart
he'll take your soul
if you let him

he beckons you

to follow
the suggestions
on the page
to whisper
his words
and make a wish
perhaps
to speak a spell
of talk and changing
of a lot of things really
that take their places
by the light of the moon

I am thinking
of northern lights
that shimmer green

and glimmer
long after
in the range
of blue

and shift in Winter

to hues subtler still

when you are a writer
you seldom ask
where your words will take
your reader
will he be still
or will his spirits quicken
and his limbs shake
to the thrill
of the touch
of paper
in his fingers
or will he be lost
in your trill
which dances
like the Aurora Borealis
that takes its shape
when some combination
of God and Van Allen belts
makes the solar wind visible
glass filaments

and neon tubes

taking the place
of iron filings
making fields of force

against the magnet
of the reader's mind

will the reader
survive the journey
or be drawn too far
into the depths

will he surface
and emerge
better than before
better, stronger, faster

or will he be weakened
and sickened
by the trip
to wisdom
and other unreconcilable lies

will he groan and protest
or be converted
proselytized
to a cult
of unreachable longings

who can say
if the writer will sing and dance
or shift his glance
when the reader dramatizes
the writer's words
with his own script and meaning.