Literary Enclave:
Poetry Zone

Hey there, O Mr. Director above
  (from your omniscient angles unseen)
     Was it you who did the deeds that're done
        And determined the denoument
Of the wee and woeful human strain?

Under those blazing lightbeams
    We'll all, inevitably, have to be 
Face to face 
 With the why behind a why 
   Behind the mask, penultimate, in vain 
       Flying unfettered toward the cosmic scribble 
Strewn across the face of the vast
   Circling
      Shining
         Shimmering
            Smiling
Soul 
   (Home within, at last, not far away)

And he so sly, here 
Lighting, puffing his cigarette
Blowing smoke rings which swirl upwards and disappear