This is not an interview

Sorry I lied.

You didn’t mind when you pried

On me with your brethren in full view.

This is an interrogation.

Or an ambush. Name it what you will.

You choose to lead me through a narrow tunnel of thorns

Is it perhaps an exercise to make me take the bull by the horns?

Maybe it is a sport to you

To select what you wish for newborns

And watch as your frame adorns

What their vulnerable frame mourns.

Do you enjoy the negativity your name invokes

Or the necks you fill with yokes.

(Fate moves uncomfortably in its seat)

That is why you need to carve your destiny

To suit the taste you desire.

How do I do this when you have your teeth on my wrist?

What do I do when you have bored holes under my cup

And all my efforts leaked to waste.

My cup never overflowing.

The path you set has tagged my feet with dead weight

I know you  savour this with relish.

It is to your maker you must cry for it is His wish.

I am none but just a tool

You would be a fool

To think of me a ghoul

Which feasts on your dead hope and ambitions.

How do I escape this road I am to ply, Fate?

There is death, the ultimate route.

When the time comes, he will come for you

And you will be rid of me.

(Fate sighs in resignation)

You have sapped my soul

And left it for your scavenger brother.

This life I tow is a fate worse than death.


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