Scraping the bottom of the barrel,
those threads and fibres of ideas.
They’re no good, they say.
So I counter; I’m not scraping, I’m shaping,
crafting not a barrel but a watertight embrace
that I can shelter in as society’s laughter stampedes.
In my cave of solitude, while I wait for quiet,
those threads have been plaited into prose.
Like Tolkien, like Rowling – it’s all just the same.
No, it’s all just me. They may only see words,
but their children will see worlds.