I seldom find myself
directing my anger outwards
towards actual conscience and fate and God
and people who are actually maneuvering us chess pieces.
Humans are by extension slaves
to a greater concept or a greater scheme,
or maybe it would be brave
to assume that we even have any role
on that chess board.
But as it was said,
we are frequently largely unaware
of so much that happens—
and although I want to be angry
and upset
and just riddled with grief
(which I am in a way
that I cannot even begin to describe)
I shall direct it towards a fake god
and whatever may be in this fury.
Yes—
not at the small hands
playing small games,
but at the absence wearing a crown,
at the silence that calls itself divine,
at the scheme itself,
at the veil we name "greater,"
at the script we never wrote,
at the watcher that never wept.
This is not a poem of people.
This is the howl
aimed upward,
a flame refusing to kneel.
May it contemplate within.
But also be more.
