Thoughts of an Unborn Child

They say that a story is the reflection of the writer. That somewhere the writer hides, voicing in whispers, eyeing the papyrus world through his real eyes, feeling the characters like a real man, often mistaking himself for a god who could rigthly play with the destinies of people he created. They couldn't be more wrong because by the time the last page turns, the last letter scribbled, and the walls broken, the writer ends up becoming the reflection of the story. The reflection of the very fabric that he created! It is hard to believe that the writer doesn't choose a story, but its the story who chooses the writer. It chooses him, pulls him down into a labyrinth of a non-existent world promising salvation, sometimes even to the limits of threatening his very foundations of belief, distorting his views of reality - and like an angry child craving attention - mingling it with illusion. The journey begins through places unseen, of people unborn, of fates twisted, of lives fabricated, of moments relived, and of actions performed. Time and matter loose themselves into that world, all that remains is a writer pregnant with a story that slumbers in the womb of his spirit, and with each moment it grows real, palpable. It rises like a fire, devouring the man and mind and feeds on it. Through those ashes, arrives that moment of realization which ironically, doesn't resemble the joy of birth; it is the unspoken, forever acknowledged pain of a mother who stands on her door watching her married daughter leave her courtyard forever.
      Then a story is born; the writer, reborn.

Perverted Genius

He must have had his flaws,
But no eye was born who would bear.
Anyone, who could say that God once had little laws,
That would drive this world of dreams far and near.
A purpose or a whim that became all that we know,
A player untiring with a joy that would never go.
The intertwining of a pure joy and misplaced sorrow,
The long, defeating, dark nights that precede the bright morrow.
Mistakes made first, revealed later,
Choices made, of sin, without fear.
Imperfections ingrained such in the beautiful dress,
To an unsuspecting eye, the perfection of which does impress.
Those faiths firmed on rock and sand,
Some that kill, some become a saving hand.
Illusions that look like the perfect art,
Fables that part guide, distract in part.
Who but a fascinated child with a quill could do such obvious,
Or someone above man, a perverted genius!

Time

The God of men picks up a black pebble, flat on its faces.
The still lake awaits.
He swings his arm, lets the pebble go.
The black pebble: living, breathing, purposeful;
It dances off the surface.
The still lake ripples, the rippled lake changes.
God watches amused; names the pebble 'Time'.

Storm

The air smells of golden strands on mango trees;
the sun shines on a magnificent, bright hour.
The bird's ears whisper from the breeze.
She watches the horizon, feels its power.
She sings in happiness – the orphaned kind,
Just then a lightness has fallen on her feathers, she finds.
She looks again, the disguising day still surrounds her with smiles,
yet she knows: a storm lurks within gentle miles!