I promise you, I'll update as much as I can when I get back from CAP.

Now on to the poem...

In this world,

Everything is my work.

On the surface,
Engraved in letters,
Eternal as if set in sacred stone,

My name,

I am god.

I am tailor,
Who refuses to work with
Monochrome brownish-gray
Clay, not quite malleable enough
For my needs.

And so I turn to
Words
To use as tools of my trade of

Creation:

Picture nimble fingers gently
Stringing rivers and streams
From word after word, each
Reverently carried out from the
Heart of my chest,

Hearts of their own beat as
Living waters flow.

Picture palaces arising from
Carefully constructed building blocks of
Text, foundations sturdy to
Withstand all trivial
Tests of time,

Impossible?
Not if I dictate so.


I am dresser,
Who decides where his fabrics
Float to and who they
Fit,

He wears the garb
Of an insufferable trickster,
Complete with a sanguine mask,
The organic kind.

She puts on the apparel
Which is multi-layered; a sweater
Made from the cashmere of confidence hiding
Drab, dreary insecurities.

And I am who which decides
When to clothe them in
Shrouds of darkness, ones that
Wail and echo finality.
That is,

Whenever I like.

I am Anansi,
Spider god.
I have woven my intricate
Web, my great
Expanse, stretched out to reach
New horizons for the craft,

To capture unsuspecting readers who
Once drawn in, are
Kept by unshakable threads, in
Marvel and awe, even suspense.

I am Thor.

No,
I am greater.
The pen is mightier than the hammer,

Destruction materialized cannot
Construct, cannot
Craft illusions of allure,
Of grandeur,

Its only purpose is
Shatter-

Ring. Ring.

“What is it?

Oh,

Hello Mister Publisher,
You’ve,
Read my manuscript?
You’ve,
Rejected it?
Thought it was
Absolute rubbish?

Oh.

No, no, no,

I understand.

There won’t be a
Next time?

Oh.”

Slam.


In this world,
I have none to
My name,

Unheard, unknown,

I am nothing.