Her Way

She doesn't get to choose
the ghosts,
nor the songs
they sing each night

She doesn't get to choose
which fight to delight
nor which wrongs
need
making right

She wasn't asked permission
given commission
or even munition
simply filled
with contrition

For other people's sins
their irrelevant wins
those taxidermied skins
set up like human tenpins

She wasn't given hope
or even a proper scope
nor the slope
of their lies

or their guttural ties

She is a light unto herself
no more
no less
a spark set up on an old,
worn out shelf
that internal self

An ember of potential
nothing essential
or quintessential
and quite surely lacking credentials
yet somehow...
differentially sapiential
and unequivocally
exponential

That flame
that dame
that primordial game
here to once again
reclaim
and proclaim
Her once and final
domain.

Exe
4/10/2025

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“There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'.”
― Virginia Woolf





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