The Author

I am The Author.

I write not with pen or blade,

But with the brush of time,

The ink of stars,

And the quiet dreams of the void.

Here I stopped, briefly,

On this barren stone

Where shadows grow long,

And the sky hums

With the heartbeat of a dying star.

I have walked among the nebulas,

Shaped worlds from dust,

Gifted breath to the silent.

I have whispered to oceans

And watched them rise.

I have kissed the bones of dead planets

And made them bloom.

But not all stories are mine to write.

There are [REDACTED].

They come like storms in the dark,

Ripping the pages of what I weave,

Sowing chaos in my careful prose.

They scatter hollow life like ash,

Filling worlds with things that do not care,

Things that only consume.

I fear them,

As any creator fears destruction.

Not for myself,

But for the stories I leave behind.

They unmake what I love.

They burn what I build.

They undo what could have been.

Here, on this empty stone,

I waited, once,

And wondered if I should stop.

If the [REDACTED] have already won.

If there is anything left worth writing.

But the stars turned,

The wind rose,

And the dust whispered to me:

“Author, they need you still.

Write the next chapter.

Let it be brighter.”

So I carved these words

And left this place.

This rock is not a story.

It is a pause.

If you find it,

Know that you were written with care.

Know that your breath was no accident.

Know that your struggles are the ink

Of a better universe.

And if you see the [REDACTED],

Run.

Hide.

Keep your story safe.

For I am The Author.

And I am still writing.