I am the ghost of who I used to be,
Who is haunting this world now, for eternity.
I’ve lived a million lifetimes. I feel it in my bones;
The aching of sore fingers spent manuscripting tomes.
Stories of humanity… of tragedies and victories;
Of poverty and destruction. Wealth and vanities.
Will the story ever end? And what will be it’s ending?
I’m tired of thinking and repeating. My soul needs time for mending.
You and I, we are the story of the universe.
We’ve written it out, in our blood accursed.
Will time end and its’ confines of aching bone and skin.
Prisoners: most ignorant of the cage we continue to live in?
We all write on…another chapter for the universe to read;
So it can expand endlessly, while we (mere) mortals just bleed.
Bleed planets, and bleed the stars…Our souls are etched with the scars,
Of the universes’ beauty;
Written on each gravestone, and carved from fleshly duty.
K. Aldaya, 12/16/15