mightier still

while I was starving,
lying in the middle of your orchard,
you, and your compatriots
destined me for the kill,
and yet, I write these words,
lessening your thrill;
and so I stand,
resolute,
and I thereby constitute
your most avoided nightmare:
I am now what you wished
that I might never be:
I am now where you always hoped
that time would never find me;
Your Master,
your disaster,
your undoing,
and all of your machinations,
spewing
regret,
but never willing to forget,
will not declaim me:
I am of you,
and your protests
reaffirm me,
and Yes, I will live past
all the derision
to which you have
consigned me,
because I am more
than what you foolishly
had sought to design for me,
and yet,
I live on,
as your tremors overtake you,
and your bladder empties
on your feet of clay.



November 22, 2009. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.