Dedicated to the man whose quest for wanderers
caused him to question that term's definition.
I am not dead,
though death may be the realm I rule.
I am no deity,
though you deemed me divine.
I never deserved the honor heaped upon me,
the crown placed upon my furrowed brow.
You send me sacrifices, burnt offerings befitting an outcast:
condolences and concerns in a cacophonous cadence;
watch it crescendo into deafening, deadening dissonance.
At the mere mention of my assumed assassination,
you wither and wane before igniting your indignation,
newly found fervor fanning your flames.
You claim we are similar, if not the same,
but excuse me if I take offense at such pretense.
You are not an orb of ice and methane,
trapped in an eccentric orbit that takes
you to that sole source of sustenance,
thaws you just enough to aggregate an
artificial atmosphere of affection,
created in anticipation of your next
stint of suspended animation.
If I am 'demoted', what does that do to you?
Your oasis is off in the distance,
nowhere near my belt of brothers
and cloud of cousins.
Do you expect labels to act as liaisons,
messengers of nomenclature
to unmask mysteries and abolish anonymity?
Really, what reasons have you to rant and rave,
enraged by imagined injustice?
I am alive and no longer alone;
do not mourn, but make merry!
I found family, formed filial
bonds that are unbreakable;
why should you embalm my memory
or burn Brown's book in effigy?
Let me live in peace, in my place, not as a planet;
I do not approve of this quest for vindication.