Symbolism is the pen I used to start writing my book
and the lighter fluid I bought to set it on fire.
Symbolism is my hands as they conjure and codify explanations for
each Fate in turn,
the capriciousness of their fingers,
the carelessness in their stories.
An uncertain tapestry trying desperately
to transform itself into a statue.
Symbolism is the man I’ve never made myself get over
and the woman I’ve never been under.
The little garden I made in my back yard
and the animals they test my makeup on.
It’s the manifestation of my every hope and every want, and
the systems I’ve built to keep them starved.
Symbolism is the origin of all my virtues
until it becomes my WMD.
And I’m so trigger-happy, you know
I don’t mind letting it flare up a bit.
That’s the funny thing about polytheists:
they don’t go around trying to kill the other gods.