Children

Sometimes I feel a sense of guilt towards the characters I have created in my unfinished novels. I have fallen in love with writing poetry and I am not sure when I will be able to finish their stories.

I really consider them all my children, and each bears a little piece of me in their hearts.

(Some could say this poem shows an agnostic vision.)

My dear children,

young or old,

with honorable intentions,

or in search of quick gratification,

pumped up heroes,

or sexy villains.

/

I have been unfaithful,

human nature, inherent hunger of the mind

etcetera.

/

It started casually,

slow pace.

/

I saw your journey,

clear like the present,

heard your voices,

wrote your lines,

gave constant signs,

during twilight on the road.

/

You moved slowly, very dirty

not knowing if you’ll see tomorrows day,

my attention wavered,

looked to the side,

to the sphere that you can’t see

or even comprehend.

/

My hands are tied,

fingers glued to one another,

not able to paint the final picture of your world,

missing brush and missing vision,

forgotten words and faded art.

/

Your canvas is too small,

constant barriers and walls,

slice through the soggy dye,

melting precious pigment,

smoke rising higher

it has no color or emotion,

enchanting luster is unseen.

/

You waiting for some action from the sky,

but you lost connection to my eye.

/

I cut through the weeds,

towards the place where maybe we can meet,

a realm where gravity became a theory,

where night comes only to inspire.

/

If I don’t get to see you there,

don’t worry,

sunrise will arrive,

and so will I,

will ride with you,

to the final page,

to free you from your written cage.