Child, Tyrant, Plaything, Clown
Fate speaks out
The barbs and smiles, shadows and flashes, mixings of hell with heaven —
This, this is my Face, and it is I who make it.
You are my pawn, plaything, putty, pushover —
pathetic.
Powerlessness leaves a lot to be desired, but you aren’t the first to be stripped, flayed, gutted of free will —
do you see Mars or Venus whinging about their suffocating orbit of fate? have you seen either of them try to stop or turn around?
then shut up and spin like my orbiting toy top — dance the way I made you to dance.
I can see failure breaks your heart, but it doesn’t touch Mine.
I see a sad, serious clown, devastated by his limitation and inability.
I see a proud, wounded soul who feels he is owed something he is denied.
I watch an angry lion, a Richard III, an exiled killer.
I see hatred and pride and a desire to take revenge on those who deny and exclude you.
I see a challenger to the throne who is denied power.
I see all the witches’ passions at a hot boil.
I see entrapment, futility, depression, guilt.
You are industrious, but not smart. You don’t make good decisions.
The deeds are done. The things you write are finished. You can’t do a thing about it.
You can wake up. You can write. And then you can forget.
You are My machine. You are My unhappiness.
Just know these tears that roll down your face, leave Mine dry.
Your misery leaves not a single scratch or scar on My Face.
There is not a Dawn that mourns the sunset of yesterday’s deaths.
So go on —
Cry.
© Carlo Zeno 2023
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Thank you to augmented man for considering this piece for his pub. For two more recent poems, check out the below 👇
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