don’t want to be your destiny

I don’t want to be your reason,
only its loose-knit rhyme.

I don’t need to be saved,
given scissors to ensure my hand
is stayed
because if I was
going to leave you this way,

it would happened in
the shape of arrows,
rather than running
endless circles all this time.

You don’t need to be purposeful for me to
see the point, just like you don’t have to
scream to show me
you have a voice.

You can stay my rock and also
be poignant.

Never feel joyless
just because some
choices are meant
to juxtapose your
journey, give
uncertainty its
fifteen minutes.

I never want to be your infinite, only your
passing interest
renewed with each
hard-fought battle won and lessons of the
few we caused.

I don’t want to be your
poem but the stanza you’re at a loss to
pen.

Practice makes perfect,
love,
and ours is the
epic,

a literary Zen.

I’ll never be that archetype
and don’t repent,
but in
my defence,

I could never respect our creation were that
the case.

Don’t make me destiny but let me decorate; I’ve
got some colours other paintbrushes
have never encountered

you can use when
all others have been
spent in haste.

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