Years of weaving,
Of passing shuttles,
Of tightening strings
Divinity is pulling
Another string loose.
Pinned up patterns
Inspired by extracts
Of others’ lives,
Visions of utopia
Fantasies of prosperity,
Glamor and honor
Another to ashes.
But I take up the paints
To continue my masterpiece.
So Divinity takes up her sponge
To wash away freshly laid color.
“Not what I wanted!” I protest.
“Not what I wanted,” she replies.
“Undoing my work!” I cry.
“Doing my work,” she says.
“But what of my happiness?” I ask.
“Of what makes your happiness?” she asks.
“It all hurts too much,” I object.
“It all hurt too much,” she says.
“Then what will you do?” I submit.
“What I do,” she declares.
Then Divinity takes up her penAnd writes in my stead.