There is an innate ability within a writer,
who shapes, shifts and shatters the dancing
wild dreams of his characters. Cutting and categorising
each construction across her pages, stanzas and acts.
He builds the fantasy that she later destroys, slapping together
adjectives and vowels as the mortar of their castles and
grinding together sibilance and assonance to grow
the wondrous fauna of their wonderland.
Writers control God, Zeus and their elements with
his pen or paper and her clacking corona typewriter
that dances across a white page; formulating fornication
and fabricating fallacies that do not make sense in any
world but their own and belong only on the coarse
paper on which they scribe.
But her greatest weapon is his greatest failure.
For the cold, black ink can never superimpose an image
That she has captured within his mind. Instead, the
verbs and parenthesis serve only as strange, foreign
markings to be translated in an instant where
eyes meet page and power fluctuates, wildly,
between God and her creations. A stone castle is
beautiful or grotesque and it’s princess is butch
or beautiful. Throughout the reading each party
claws and scrapes to dominate and understand
to show their mind but see the others. In these final
moments the writer is wild as she is lost in his
own world and at the mercy, or admiration,
of those that she does not know.
And all of the power she once had is gone.