Sometimes, I feel as though I were a god.
From my hands spring creations,
Something blooms where once only pieces lay.
Words and cloth and ink,
Become worlds I manipulate at whim.
I have my own power,
I am invincible,
Unstoppable.
Some voice inside me whispers,
"You've gone to far,
Come back, come back."
But I go farther into the forest of my own delusions.
The thorns push at me,
But I am a god,
I do not bleed.
Again the voice calls me.
"Turn back, turn back"
But what lies behind me,
Besides dreaded mortality?
