It’s about time
I tell you a story, son,
About a man.
His name doesn’t matter.
He had many;
More than he himself could count.

After nine months
Of patient waiting
The man at last entered
The great hall
And sat down
To write.
The room he was in
Was crowded.
Filled with many;
More than could be accurately counted.
People kept entering.
People kept leaving.
Yet the room
Got more crowded
As time went on.

His right arm started writing
In ink the color
Of the purest snow.
It started a story.
There was much to write about.
The first page
Began with
An explosion
Of sights.
Vivid colors came to paper.
As he sat there,
Writing,
From his body
Sprouted a muscular left arm.

His left arm started to write
With ink the color
Of gruesome bloodshed.
Sometimes
His right arm stopped writing
Sometimes
His left arm ceased its activity
Only to reenter
In a different shade
Of its bloody red.

As he wrote his story
Black fought red.
Red countered black.
There came times
When his right arm
Was afraid to write.
There came times
When at the sight
Of his own mighty left arm
His noble black arm
Would wither in submission.
There came times
When his right arm
Would craft armor
And build great barricades.
Yet his left arm
Saw through the petty attempts
Of his desperate right arm.
His left arm scorned his right arm
Revealing the great walls
To be hallow in design
Falling to the weakest attack
His left arm laughed disdainfully
At the armor
Of his right arm;
Which seemed so strong
Yet was makeshift
And not made for prolonged attack
Or the overpowering strength
Of his left arm.

Many read
The writings of his right arm.
Others
Read his left arm.
As he sat there writing
He knew
That he should write with his right arm
Yet he was weak.
And in his weakness
His left arm took command
Of the great story.

When It was time
For his story to be completed.
He wrote his
Last
Word
And it was red.
He weeped
He screamed
He hit himself
He tore his hair.
His body disintegrated
To dust.
Yet there was his left arm
Writing.
It kept going,
Writing its last word
Over
And over
Again.

His left arm turned to another page
And wrote
Its last word
Over
And over
Again.

When people came
To see his book
All they saw
Was that last word
And they turned away
In pity.
They didn’t want to read
All the writing
By his right arm.
All they saw
Was his left arm
Rewriting
And rewriting.

Who can write
While dead?

Who can’t?


-NoLi