I drained the desert of its sand
to show the greatness of my hand.
I ran it through an hour's glass,
distilling single streams to pass
like raindrops through a sheet so vast
nobody saw the pinprick cast
as arbiter of worthiness,
deciding who deserved my bliss.
And there I was, when all was told:
A single mote just sitting bold
upon an ocean of my peers -
thirst slaked, and stripped of my veneers.
I tore the pages from my life
and rubbed the words from ev'ry line
until I was a ragged ream,
deranged and blank, an awful meme
for soporific, worthy gloom -
insipid angst we use to groom
our teenage selves to take a look,
'I took control, erased my book!'
And there I was, when all was told:
A rubber strand of rubbed-out gold,
so earnest yet without a word
to show the world I have some worth.
So finally, I understood
that nobody except me could
decide the weapons I might wield
to join the fray upon the field
of life's great battle. Yes, it's true
that perseverance sees one through,
but also we must see our fate;
another life, this world to sate.
And here I am, when all is done:
A pointless spark fed by the sun,
a poet in the universe -
it's both a blessing and a curse.
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