When I look at you, Dear Reader,
I get a spark of hope
Like a deranged butterfly.
It makes me a bit queasy
To watch it twitch in joy
And to think, Hey, the world hasn’t ended today.
I might actually have something to get up and do something for.
How do you do it?
How do you read me so effortlessly
When you could be doing a thousand other things
With a witless, unfinished book?
You must be finished.
I bet you will never ever have to change
From being Perfect, Understanding You.
If only I knew what was going on behind your eyes,
If I saw the inner workings of your beautiful mind
I could get a glimpse.
I just know my thoughts, and I’ve got to say
It is just so dark in there.
I keep bumping over things, falling, and spurting bad words.
So when your Spark of Hope flew in
(I think it was from the glint in your eyes)
I just didn’t know what to do with the light inside.
To be honest, it was surreal, seeing the things
I’ve tripped over in a new light.
Why, oh, why, must I endure ME?
Couldn’t I be written as someone less Walter?
Which brings me to the point.
(So sorry again it took me so long to get here
I really must learn some hard up efficiency)
I just can’t stop looking at things differently now,
Ever since you read me back to me.
You came at just the right time…
After the Big Shift.
That’s when all these questions swooped in:
IS Walter the scourge of the earth?
IS Walter a boon from heaven?
IS the Author a good Author?
Can the Author be trusted to write me well?
And, million-dollar question: will they ever get around to doing it?
I guess I’ll have to wait and see. Figures.
Thanks for flying in,
And settling here with me.
I know we’ll get to the bottom of this,
You and me,
Me and you,
And this ever-so-glinting,
Butterfly of Hope.