The book of life

I am being written

like ink that flows

from the art of a pen

and carefully shaped

and formed

on the cellulose.


And my story

is being told

against the great

infinite backdrop

of the universe

in which

these atoms

were combined

and these

narratives unfold.


But who has

control of

the pen that

writes on the

universal page

in the book of

this life where

all the stories

are displayed,

and where all the


are made?