In the beginning Poiein wrote
Poiēma; her world was blank and
shalpeless as February yearns
to give life. From her pen, a tool
to build worlds and a weapon to

tear them down, came the physics for
her world, gravity and time through
meter and rhyme. From that sheet of
paper Poiein brought forth life. She
created a world full of nouns:

places to see, objects to love,
ideas to ponder. She brings forth
adjectives to make her grey world
full of color: blue hope, indigo
compassion, violet love. But

Poiēma was empty; no one
there to enjoy her poem. So
she created a man, named
him Iré Cupid. His hair red
as October leaves; he was warm

as January’s dawn. His bane
did not fit her world, full of cool
colors. He was full of yellow fear,
orange avarice and red
rage. A contradiction in being

he was perfect for Poiēma.
But still there was no life, for
nothing happened. She wrote verbs
into her world. Iré Cupid

sprang into action: going to
places, seeing objects, thinking
idea after idea.
Verbs were the key to life in the
world. Nouns without verbs are as

useless as an aqueduct without
water. The world was still empty,
vitality was missing. Iré
was alone with his red rage,
orange avarice and yellow fear.

She made more nouns, people. She
colored them with adjectives, rage,
love, fear, compassion—all colors
that fill her heart. As Poiein looked
to the sky with exuberance

she saw a bloodied Man with throne
for a crown. In his hand a Pen,
a tool to build worlds and a weapon
to tear them down. She looked around
and all she saw was a sheet of

paper. In the mirror she saw
not Poiein but words on the page.
Slowly a bead of water smudged
the page, destroying her Poiēma

~ by hankimler on October 9, 2014.

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