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.
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