On the pages of time, I do travel, in silence, I do seek,
The one whose thoughts create me, and makes my words speak.
At night a light grows dim, his fingers stroke the keys,
Writing, deleting, rewriting so many lost memories.
He is the author, and I, only a character in his thoughts,
Brought to life, given a soul, fulfilling his every want.
He can make me laugh deep from within, or a cherished smile,
An anguished moan, or heart-wrenching cry, whatever the style.
Just once I wish to emerge the pages and make his thoughts so real,
Kiss his lips, gaze into his eyes, and show him that too, I can feel.
I love my author, he gave me life, he gave me hope, he gave me breath,
But I am only his puppet, waiting for him to choose my life or death.
I am only a character in a book, but my author holds my life,
Each night as he pours out his soul, my pain a dull-edged knife.
My love grows, my heart breaks, I am running out of space,
The book will end soon, and I will no longer gaze upon his face.
© Cynthia Clark