So now every inch of me
is seven years of fucked.
So if anyone wishes to change my foreseeable future
they best run it by fate first,
before they find themselves collecting shards in their own free time.
Epiphany? Keep it pithy.
You still don’t give my ego
(whipper of split glass, snapper of buoyed light)
room enough to wiggle
All myeggs in infinity’sbasket?
Why, they’ll drop too deep!
and weep yolkily that they miss me
as every inch of them winces asunder
All things must come to an end -
my tether not the least of them - but
tell time to tell Igor the Infinite, his filthy swine,
to keep his mucky hands off my eggs, the brute!
He can peel the shells (membranes and all!)
from my cold, dead hands.