The Creator Chronicle: Full Circle

We sit, full circle, with secrets curled20151207_170256 (4)
At our feet, no one speaks and sunken
Eyes study wooden panels on the floor
The subject is sore and there are so
Many broken pencils in the pile between
Us, emblems of broken trust, an eerie
Calm to a once bustling place, a wonderful
Race of colour and creation, now empty of

Ideas and the deflation of pop up bubbles
Lie like a massacre on our laps, foot taps
And silence dances in the interval, the
Cleaners mill about before taking cue and
Some loiter still, few wondering about the
Carnage we have made, the gargling of
Creatures begins to fade and the stabbing
Guilt lessens, this was not the kind of

Impression I had wanted to leave, and
Now awkwardly I roll down my sleeves
Covering tattoos which fuel inspiration,
And wait with patience for someone to
Admit the failures of the day, for another
To remind us failure is ok but ultimately
We each dug so many graves and staring
At the headstones and scrawled out names

Assigns us with an indescribable pain of
Blame, which is ironic, given the nature
Of our souls, there are always stories
To be told, waiting at tongue tip like
A diving board but somehow we created
A hoard of beasts, half alive, a strange
Feat, something certainly to take no
Pride in, sweeping brushes guide them

To bins and we collectively cringe at the
Deafening thud, wishing there was something
That could be done but the erasers are stubs
And our arms are sore, so one by one we file
To the door, shrouded in the quiet of a funeral
March, and the last to leave goes to turn off
The light, but the light-bulb is burst, a frightening
Sight and we lock up the room before taking

Our leave, and go separate ways to find some
Relief in the horrors of draft and errors,
At home I cover all the mirrors, afraid to
See their reflection as mine, this rift we
Tore, I knew, would take time to heal,
And for now we’d keep that room sealed
And deal with the contents at a later
Date when we were ready to confront
Our fate.

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