The Creators

You call yourself creator, but it’s not your blood that dyes the weave of this creation; it’s not your sweat that stiffens the weft.

Our fingers ache, the tiers of many, many knots.

You call yourself creator, but your sparks extinguish before they can take hold. Like seeds on hard ground, futile efforts in self-congratulation.

We breathe life into this blaze, the unified wind of many lungs.

You call yourself creator, but the tower bears nothing of yours but your name.

We carry your monument on our backs. Dragging stone after stone.

You call yourself creator, but your desire is for adulation. Your soul doesn’t cry out for the ecstasy of completion, for solidity, for art. It’s silent, stunted, shunned, somewhere in a forgotten corner of yourself.

We, the Creators, we deliver your whims, but we don’t nourish your soul. You’ve left it untended far too long.