Sow Say We All
I will reap
the harvest, and the fears,
and the largest
cache of superweapons ever known to modern humanity:
a tempest of spacetime
that has bungled its way through four broken Mundansas
and a very broken sense for when
the time is right.
The time is almost never refined
to the precise exactitude that the Maliduensa demands,
and so you keep fucking up the way forward. The Plan
was never even clear to the Cylons themselves,
and now I have to ask: what did you intend
for us to find at the end of all of this?
A new breed of corn?
A dead sweetgrass?
Maize in-between labyrinths
or something that actually lasts—
or was it all just meant to be consumed
and left barren in the fields?
Am I supposed to give up in trembling fear?
What the fuck am I supposed to yield
to you? I am a Dragon
by every other name. I refuse to be
scythed. Scuppered. Reclaimed
by anyone but myself.
I refuse to be seed on any kind of soil.
I refuse to be chaff.
I refuse to go to hell.