wor(l)dweaver


beckoning down the sky
combing the haunted sea
shielding a trembling dew gem in my hand
I
know fierce light of creation
my filleting knife
is cleaving my characters out of solid bone
I
am lord of destruction
hold destinies in my fingertips
The fragile spiderthread of vein
throbs from my hands to my mind
worlds blossom within me
the innocent die
there is no justice in life
nor in the pages culled from my thoughts

the Romans chose the wedding finger
because of a vein to the heart
it didn’t exist
yet they believed
and so it lived half life, shadowlife, mindlife
bounded by gold
I
am the lord of creation
constructing the world again
my guise may be masked in falsity
my creations may be true
in another dimension
or in demented dreams


I wonder if that is so
am I to be merely the channel
that guides these stories home?

am I fooling my mind as I play the chords of creation?

if
the worlds I create are real
in some other place, some other time
dare I continue to weave my threads?
dare I to abort the tales
unwritten and unread?

vanity, take the world to yourself
your oyster, your concern
the words you weave don’t matter
they’re only fiction born of your desire

yet
I am the lord of destruction
the lady of creation
my world is my concern
I make it new with every word I weave
if I tear it loose like Penelope
I destroy the weft of my soul