LETTERS. (An Original Poetry)

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I have lettered letters,
of kempt and unkempt
stories,
of Aladdin and moremi,
and now the papers
are but clusters
in every dark corner
the pen is fetters
that brings us closer
to gnawing glory

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In places,
where men shudders,
like feathers in the storm
we've dotted with inks
and told Gulliver's tales
like hieroglyphics
on Moses's tablets
cooking tales like porridge
to entertain the soul.

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In truth,
we have made men kings
and crowned many slaves,
life's a lump of clay
lying aimlessly
on the ground
and we're fabricators
that forges stories
like goldsmith
into tragedies
and melodrama

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alas,
lies are truth,
well cooked by the heart,
like a broth smouldering
over the flames of deceit
we're but instrument
on the field
laying in wait
to play life's role