Mythmaker

I was sentenced to make myths for men.

There I stood, assembled,
In the centre of a blank room:
Unadorned and without any orifice,
Time for me was a corpse in an ocean,
Swollen, floating, rotten, unrecognisable 
But the salt still stung,
As if death had forgotten about the pain of passing.

The silence of the world rested like mist upon my mind,
A common sobriquet, I know, but still one of its kind, 
Oh and the dark took it, and made me one of its own,
But I know not textures of such thoughts,
This enslavement comes from whispers;
Those slow daggers,
Aimed at my slower spine.

But I do dream beyond this shackled dream;
This walled precipice,
I carry out my sentence,
In a sense that makes me, my own judge and jury,
And weave myths,
For those who dip their finger in the wind,
To fold the fabric of the world,
One corner at a time.

Am I God?
The omnipotent earthling of heaven and hell?
The omnipresent search of science and eastern religion?
The omniscient questioner of Egypt and Israel?
No.
Perhaps, yes.
Perhaps, we all are a perhaps,
A song on the shore made from echoes of lost oars,
Each of us existing for the existence of other,
We each another’s child,
We each another’s mother.

Seems I have turned the men themselves into myth,
So, another life sentence for me;
I never learn,
And it is a gift.