i do not have the might
to gather my makeshift wings of paper maché and tacky glue
and leave this cardboard labyrinth with one entrance
because the minotaur is my only friend here
and i am not your drowning icarus.
i do not have the rue
to play a somber tune of the dead through my howling flute
when your gossamer fingers flee my grasp
while my own are still growing brittle bones
and i am not your mourning orpheus.
i do not have the time
to soothe your fears with a bleeding throat and spit out a fortune cookie
when the world is crumbling and their eyes are glassy
because nobody listens to a dismal fool
and i am not your pleading cassandra.
i do not have the care
to hang like a medal on your neck and adorn your fingers,
for your fickle mind is scalding on my tongue
but i have legions to seek and lead
and i am not your seething hippolyta.
i do not have the breath
to drink in your poetry and exhale the same words
because my voice is just a little lost in the woods
but it will squeeze past the onslaught
and i am not your weeping echo.
this flimsy box is but a refuge from the melting sun,
and my song is for me to keep when all else departs.
i’ll keep the future to myself while you blindly reach
because my decaying army awaits their recovering leader
and you might walk on water, but you won’t walk on me.
i am not a tragedy.