In crowds of my own making, in
lands of ancient origin, and
all seems to be a dream...
plagued by fumbling destiny...
why do the wee girls dislike me?
Trying to let go, to cleanse, to
defacate and relocate all
those digested themes
of my life...and they enter again,
unwanted, unneeded, unknown-
into my stall where my head hangs
low...they fight me, I fight
back, I deny the validity
of their attack, my tongue issuing
warnings to stay back...off
my track- but their potion
which I saw as poison
pestered me, throughout my
prison sentence here, my patience
with self slowly eroding, as
I strangle the throat of my muse...
my brain confused, till scene
shifts to public bus, to
public pain, to public movement
on the train...of thought that
bore me open again.
The mother of the fates, she
sits beside me now, asking
if I'm aware of the sanctity
of the crowd- and I reply
and deny knowing the existence
of these three, sustaining insistence
upon my belief, of which they
preside- taunting my attempts
to remain outside
their lines.......they are
weaving me...destiny...the
sisters of fate that assist me.
But I feel forced, and so I try
to scribble out their words
that try my soul too wretchedly...
feeling profanity rising thru me,
denying sanctity to my world-
and I take up the pen and write my
beginning, proud of thinning
out my fate...too little love
beside too much hate.
And they just watch me gently
now, as I try to understand
the why and how and accept
my destiny here and now...
And all the rage I felt at them,
all the rage I repressed within,
flew free of me and I flew too-
aware of three wise girls of truth
who shaped my life
and made me see...
their threads are woven to
guide me to Be.