Years of weaving, Of passing shuttles, Of tightening strings And approving Unravels. Divinity is pulling Another string loose. Pinned up patterns Inspired by extracts Of others’ lives, Visions of utopia Fantasies of prosperity, Glamor and honor Burn. Divinity ignites 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 pen And writes in my stead.