The Storyteller Poem by Pen Anthony

We take turns feeding the fire
With the winds of the night
It has quite an appetite
I'll tell you of the winds someday

Now I'll tell you about
The Storyteller
A man to whom as night falls
We wait upon as a seedling for rain

He says he gets his stories from the fire
Hence the aforementioned attention to the fire
He is old
Walks with a limp
As the years have weighed on him.

But one thing they haven't touched
Is the potency of his voice
It's still as loud
As far as i can remember
When he takes on the characters voices
He's more than convincing

I'm tempted to say the Lions don't roar
As loud as they do in his stories
Stories are told of him as a boy
That he'd make animal voices
In the grazing fields
Then all cattle would run home

Tonight I'm seated next to him
I want to learn how he does it
Because when he's gone i want
To tell the Storyteller stories