Author.

The world—
a story.

Surrounded by 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 hear talk of calling.
Purpose and authority.
Language suited for heroes.
For men who believe
their place makes history.

I retreat.
I never asked for this.
The burden exceeds me.

You were not asked,
says the voice.
You were made.

I relent—
not in courage,
but in recognition.

Then I ask the last useful question:
What is your domain—
your name?

I am,
says the voice,
not within the story.

Not one being
among others.
Not assigned a role.
Not bound by scene or time.

The story exists
because I speak.
Grammar precedes consent.
Endings wait
before beginnings appear.

Characters move,
living on the paper,
aware only of the lines they inhabit
never the sentence,
never the page.

The plot does not hesitate
at refusal.
History does not pause
to be understood.

It proceeds.

And yet—
the Author does not remain absent.
Not as a character.
Not as explanation.

He enters
by bearing the weight
He first forbade.
Steps into flesh.
Accepts sequence.
Blood.
Time.

The story holds Him.
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.