The irony was lost to him,
of complaining of polluted skies,
when the remains of burning plant matter left his lungs.
You are the victim and the perpetrator,
to the crimes that you cry wolf to.
You are the God of your own anguish,
Mothered by pain, and your reluctance to change.
Fathered by the passing of time, that makes you realise–
your own mortality.
The silver of your hair,
bears silent witness to the passing of time,
Time that you will never get back.
Despite how angry you might be in this moment,
nothing can change that which the Fates have woven into your strings.
You must be set off into an ocean that caters only–
to your languish, hate, and inability to love;
Inability that comes from,
your fear of losing;
your inability to care–
It is for this reason that you race,
against yourself and the hands of time,
in hopes that you will save–
yourself from one day dying.