This book will end
my work of some days
meager collection of metaphor and simile
arks in story that rose and fell
shifted setting and by degrees
faded in strength.
You are derivative of other works, I say,
yet you will shine for some,
a fitting first for sequels spun in inkjet loins,
a child that will bear my name.
Silent, without voice,
but full of words, the riddle
I say you were formed in a thinking womb of months or years,
then birthed to impartial scrutiny,
released now, fleeing to the world an infant,
fresh into the hands of strangers
to cherish or abuse.
Tomorrow I will place pen on paper,
parent skills awanting,
and create another.