In Another Time

A pencil, sheets of paper, a keyboard and a frown, the relics of an author who would one day wear a crown. So many days there are in store; one would surely think, that anything is possible, that one could be the link, to worlds of fathomless beauty, to paradisal planes, to heaven’s lofty citadels and to hell’s burning chains. And as the ink spreads onward, as words begin to grow, the author’s mind melds into them, and it begins to show, reflections of itself, which are reflections of the page, which are reflections of the memories held in the mind’s loose cage. Memories born of space, and memories born of time, no author can escape themself, though would it be a crime? If one could somehow shift the world, or somehow spin the clock, then they could triumph o’er every trap, yea, they could break the lock! Behold, we can; our meager minds still have one sure power: they can peer at the illusion that suggests our coming hour, and in this gaze at what is not, though it might one day be, we modify the present in ways we can and cannot see. Beholding well our destiny locked in another time, We silence fate and demonstrate, our nature in its prime. 17 July 2016 Written for "In Another Time" contest sponsored by Ir0nic ZiNk