to the tempest

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.

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