Deus Ex Machina
A conclusion ought to be logical,
make sense of a narrative;
there is no lowered god
to resolve an end for me.
I should have been born in Ancient Greece,
a woman of quietitude, hissed at
to mould a history of silence,
I would own nothing,
a Maple seed that spins
on whichever wind can bear it.
I would speak with the rarity
of frankincense, and even then
words would flurry from my empty vessel,
torn to incomprehensible pieces
of confetti of all the lessons
I had not been taught.
We all often desire to be something that we are not,
as if this, itself, is an act in a tragedy
for which there is no longer a prize.
Hear me complain
that I have endured sorrow
without reward, where experience
or wisdom is overrated: that is true suffering,
and worse there is the flaw of victim hood,
I would say: I am a robin tricked
to sing at night by false light
until neither sun nor lamp
could illuminate me to song,
here hearts stop only for death.
Image is of a maple seed: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Maple-seed_black-white.svg
Image on Twitter: https://www.abctales.com/story/onemorething/deus-ex-machina