We are many things, and we have been many things.
We have many things.
All things pass.

Your legacy.


We put so much faith in
so many things
which serve us well enough
while they do,
then fail.
The contents and containers
of our boxcar lives
trained toward dimmest destiny.
This tunnel?
This trip?
This, too.

The oppression that buries us
is the soil that nourishes
and cradles us
as we gorge on the bounty it brings.
we stir and churn,
knot and rot
the strings Empire (All hail!)
attached to every gift or scrap
cast our way.
and digesting our lot,
we rise
and root
until we are shooting high
into the starshine
of eternally dark night,
goaded by one great
god of flaming fusion
who illustrates our lot
for us,
her illustrious glamour
her unhampered gift
to all.

She need not string us
along toward fate.
Instead, we are invited
to see Ourselves and know
we are burning.

She sent her snake
to teach us
to shed.

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