No authority
In this world
Amounts
To the power
Of fiction

Except
Maybe God’s
Own will
Whose pen
Is writing it all

Where stories
Built from realms
We’d dare
To dub
Mysterious

Comprise
Old shelves
Inside us
Collecting dust
With fate

When genres
Bent from time
Sell plots
Some call
Fantastic

While others
Seeking miracles
Find dreams
They’d wished
Before,

Each binding
Showing seams
Of such pain
Through flesh
Inherent

And that hurt
Thematic evidence
How our love
May conquer
Death

Across pages
Neatly tied
Beyond volumes
True
But heavy

Within margins
Housing spaces
Holding secrets
Plain
As script

Amid mirrors
Speaking tongues
Though reflections
Claimed
By phrases –

Every tale
Another lifetime
For this cast
We name
Ourselves.

– J. Pigno