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.