Time unfolds like unconscious writing,
A universe of words
Gathered by the fragile consistence of paper.
A godlike creative process,
Soliloquy and solemn.
I slept while thunderous waterfalls
Flooded narrow sidewalks.
The nervebreaking silence seemed a distant relic,
When dragonflies used to enjoy
The kindness of fading lullabies.
I slept while in the hills
Cities clashed for an obsolete reason,
Betrayal and treason.
I slept while thunderous waterfalls
Came washing over those who lingered,
Hopelessly regarding the marvels of self-demise…
What other reason could you otherwise…Imagine?
I do not wish to be history's typist.
I wish to be it's writer, not a mere spectator,
And to command a rebellion of stars.
A discreet, yet powerful seduction.
A thespian savoir-faire for whom may learn to dare,
How to conceal such discipline.
