Published September 25, 2016
It's not as if I'm dead. OK, technically, I am dead,
but not dead dead like the shades that wander Elysium’s borders.
I'm as alive as you. I have thoughts. Beliefs. As in, I don't believe
this is my end or yours. Nothing is fated.
A guy gave me a good offer for my rock. That’s a problem
with the delusional dead: thinking they have control.
He wandered off, looking for something more. Left me
a working knowledge of his smart phone. Cell
signals flow everywhere on my trek. But who to call?
What’s worth more than my rock? Freedom? Sunlight?
Nothing that he offered. Recharging isn’t needed, though I sleep
a little longer each day. If this is a day. I repeat myself,
the rock grows broader, my arms shorter. I’ve many ideas
how to wriggle out of my fate. If dead, I wouldn’t have
ideas, wouldn’t believe the Fates themselves can be bribed.
Nose, tooth, eye. They could clip Hades’ thread if they wanted.
By the time this riot was back in order, I’d be gone. Dead,
if I don’t exist elsewhere. Why stay where nothing’s gained?
You know, Fate isn’t three crones, just harbors the hatred of three.
I’m not using my appendix, bowels, don’t need all my digits.
Like old furniture, they take up space. She could have them.
So bloodthirsty, I suppose she’d throw them to Cerberus.
Wait. I could do that myself. Hold that bargain, Fate.
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