A Narrative Snare

Black tales flow from darker ink.

Terrible, tall towers are traced by louring hands.

Stories revealing themselves like foxes beginning to slink, 

Pouncing whilst their victims give no enduring reprimand.

I, the hunter, begin. \'Tis the truth I seek.

But as though I were flailing in quick sand,

Groping for solid land,

Phrases trap me not unlike stone does a sphinx.