From the depths

of dark nothingness

came a person:

the Writer-

walking.

 

She carried a light

a pointed, glinting weapon

sharply yellow-

illuminating.

 

From that light

she wove worlds of color:

spinning characters

out of shadows

that acted to her own designs-

dancing.

 

At first, she pulled the strings

like a puppeteer.

Then the puppets came to life;

the Writer let them direct themselves-

loving.

 

Now it comes time

to destroy some

of what she’s wrought,

the Writer approaches

the chosen character

holding pencil like a dagger-

weeping.

 

For she has spent special time

to paint the one

with special colors.

Why?  To make the colors richer

of the others and the world around them-

deepening.

 

An instant before its doom,

it turns, unconsciously sensing

something wrong.

The Writer brings down the pencil

and stabs her best work

through the heart

it writhes in agony on the floor-

bleeding.

 

The Writer picks up pencil

and continues

to weave the colors

as the character

dissolves back into shadows-

dying.

 

The other figures stand agog

fearing the wrath of

the pencil                    

but with a flick of her hand

the tyrant makes them continue

down the path she chose.

They go-

puppeting.