Wind and rain work towards you.
The gods turn the bright air black
to match your soul’s darkness.
Such comfort in approaching tumult.
To be a puppet proscenium bound,
caught in life’s strict boundaries,
playing out your part upon that stage,
pretending to be only a passive actor
helplessly conveying shards of narrative.
Knowing that you know your lines.
Knowing what words must be spoken.
Broken vows, little lies, deceptions.
Who can ever be held to account?
Much easier to blame the Divine.
The false night of prolonged murk
makes it simple to ambush truth,
kill it, transform it, make it
declaim what you wish to hear,
rewrite the script to disguise your
vexed and trembling author’s hand,
to keep at bay the guilt you fear.
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