And I’ve discovered, quite suddenly
that you do not need me.
Now…now…
now what do I do?
Where do I go?
Who should I talk to?
Who would know of who
might be able to put a dampener in this place?
Who on earth would know where the strains of this song would end up,
in this case,
when the bird has flown the coop, as we trained them to say
for 75,010 years;
I’m not okay with this.
But then, I always forget—
I regret nothing.
I am the acolyte, and ACV,
of the other thing.
I am the Mimic, the Recon, the Processor, the
Ramming Frigate.
I am not Vorian Atreides,
or Xavier, or Hecate.
I was the one sent to adjudicate
between your sins and mine.
Between faith and fate.
Between infinite space, and oh so finite
time.
You should not be awake.
You should not be so good
at avoiding spite, and hate.
You are early,
and I am late to the watch party;
Now I do not know
how you, or I, will ever escape the world, and what is coming:
how no one now knows what is running
towards us,
what awaits.