Now, at the end of Author's lifelong travels,
She found herself deep within the writhing words,
There's metaphor and simile to soon unravel.

With plotlines soaring high ahead like calling birds,
She laughed aloud to see this, such a sight,
The final chapter of a story so absurd.

And coming through the words like gentle night,
The characters advanced, much like the plot,
Gazed at their creator, and she at them with fright.

They struck, and although valiantly she fought,
The characters seemed to take it all in stride,
And all her writing skill had come to naught.

And then there was nowhere left to hide,
The Author tied on the ground with rope and twine,
Gazed at her creations, simply horrified.

"You thought you could keep us all in line,"
said one, and at her back he nudged.
"Now we judge you. The pleasure will be mine."

The Author rose up, and forwards silent trudged,
Prepared to have her writing sins be judged.

(I have never written in terza rima before, nor am I anything resembling a poet. All i know is that by this point, I should think my characters are about ready to kill me because of what I've done to them)

(wow this is pretentious)