Humans are creators of the destiny
That authors us, authors of the destiny
Created thus. If one of us, timorous, exists
Past the date allotted for escape, the bliss
Of defeating fate hisses, gaseous, away
From the balloon of the skull made of dust.
I am the guest of this house, a glossy speck
Of embodiment, a muscle’s irritant solved,
Nacreous. The house, itself, is oblivious.
I arise in the morning, bankrupt, invidious,
My history mockery, my prospects hideous,
My continued self a merely invisible trajectory
Of its artillery’s derivative calculus, soaring
Long after the exhaustion of any original
Gunpowder stimulus. I am a guest. I earn
No hold that is certain, not even tenuous.
I thought I had a lien on life, could count
Myself at least a poltergeist, but there’s no
Force in a tenant’s blunderbuss. Ridiculous.
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