Brainchild

I can't recall why or how I started this poem, but it was a labour of love for the good part of four months - and this is the result: a statement of how it feels to create characters in stories, and the essence of inspiration.

In an endeavour of the mind,

I strive to make real what cannot physically exist;

breathe life into such machinations

as can only be created on those dim blue screens.

Guiding the metaphysical quill,

I pen lines pertaining to the realms of fantastic insanity;

severing all ties to accepted reality,

and thereby donning the mask of the pseudo-god,

the blasphemous creator.

My scripted child is no mortal,

for it lays dormant in an unconscious culture,

suffocated, starved and blind

until the inspiring essence reaches out

to spark it to life.

With each resurrection come atrocities

I have learnt to love as much as fear;

for every body that hits the floor

another rises from the ashes to take its place

in a manifold continuum.

While Death holds court over the living,

passions bloom in the maelstrom,

life's exordium is realised,

my world goes on oblivious under the radar. 

Until once more my brainchild grows weary,

and, lachrymose, the flow ceases, 

leaving every heart beating alone in the dark.