Author.

The world, a story.

Gods with names and faces, domains staked like borders.
Worship as currency, attention spent until power accumulates.
Fed gods rule.

Then, a bush alight, fire without appetite,
light as voice where nothing should speak.
Remove your shoes. Your weight has no place here.
Not invitation. Correction.

I retreat. I never asked for this. The burden exceeds me.
You were not asked, says the voice. You were made.

Then the last useful question:
What is your domain? Your name?
I am, says the voice, not within the story.

The story exists because I speak.
Word precedes consent.
Endings wait before beginnings appear.
We live on the paper, never seeing the page.

And yet, the Author descends,
bearing the weight He first forbade.
Steps into flesh. Accepts sequence. Blood. Time.
The story holds Him until
it breaks.

Still, the ending remains.

I stand where the line requires me,
not compelled, not excused.
The story will go on.

It will not wait.