Sleeve of time

 

Now this may be wild,

so, fasten your seat belts,

accept that what you see

may not be reality, as you know it,

and that where this leads could be

a dream fashioned from stardust

and insanity.

 

If you look to your right,

as the carriage glides

a little too high off the tracks,

and your stomach lurches

two stories below,

 

if you look, you'll see

a page becoming

real.

 

A formless ideal

moulding itself

out of the clouds

and the breeze.

 

Wave.

 

That’s me.

The narrator, the creator

of all that you see.

 

For in this world,

I am the magician

of paper,

the word-filled

silent inventor.

 

Worthlessly creating love,

that seeks an owner,

but the heart donor

is occupied by another.

 

She sits, staring the breeze.

The one that planted the seeds

that formed these trees

that all bear fruit

that tastes so sweet.

 

For the real magic lives,

in all the stories that I breath.

Not in the ones that I weave

from the remaining threads of me.

 

But there are others,

I am but a mouth,

and I can barely speak,

for the orchestration of

our cosmic annihilation sits

just feet away from me.

 

The bringer of grapes

laced with poison

to feed the ill,

the master of manipulation,

the coming storm

and the already lost cause.

The one who launched

the moon into orbit,

and the one who

set the sun alight

with just a flicker of anger.

 

And in this place, they see not

what is growing at our feet,

they see only ants.

Whilst I see the beauty inherent

in these two-legged beasts.

But my voice is silenced

by the ones that shout,

my voice is rubbed out

like a chalkboard

 

erased

with the sleeve

of time.