Increation

Increation (11th August, 2010)

I cannot shape my destiny with stories
or bring you to existence with a rhyme,
I cannot create the perfect lead or foil,
play God with every typed or written line.

Still, on the page I dream and I imagine;
sketch how your eyes might rest upon my face;
consider how, with fingered words, I’d find
just one inside the span of human race.

In my prose, you take on many different shapes
as my fantastic stories twist the truth;
I have written you a thousand times or more,
but in life outside these lines, you fail to move.

Perhaps it’s your destiny to be confined
in ink, or bound with pixilated shapes;
I confess romance was never my forte:
poetry has remained my saving grace.

I have not words enough to make you flesh;
other writers have created better men,
so inside their pages I shall lose myself,
with their villains and heroes be content.