Our Story

Are we saved or He saves us all?
I am yet to appreciate His writing style,
In which He writes my stories for me,
Each chapter inked in blue,
Fading, on the verge of yellow,
A lifetime of storytelling,
And He still can’t get the ending right,
Snow-white and Cinderella don’t really appeal to him,
A bunch of silly girls,
Hankering after a prince,
Where is the sense in that now?

Twisted is his favourite genre,
Where nothing comes easy,
The closer you get to the middle,
The darker it gets in print,
There are no hands to hold,
You probably butchered them on the way.
The irony is,
In anger and even in grief,
His stories, the world believes are about hope,
I hope too,
For once the world’s right,
In this hapless existence there be hope shining bright.