I was going to be an unloved writer,
a twirling Julie Andrews songstress,
a squat potter, a sleeper prophet,
a gentle mortician, a dirndled hausfrau,
a dark tarot reader, a church minister,
a fearless window washer, a monastic candlemaker,
a lithe gymnast, a hulking body builder,
a drunken philosopher, a forest hippy,
a water walker.
I was going to die young and sweet of an unknown cause,
in a fire set by vandals, by suicide,
at the hands of a vicious gang bent on revenge,
from cancer slowly, in a car accident,
while drowning in a cold northern lake,
from leprosy while on mission, alone in a cave,
surrounded by fellow cult members,
eaten by wolves, frozen in a snowbank,
at the hands of a madman.
I was going to be magic and strong,
build bridges, consume wind,
exceed my birth and die by fire,
and you would come with me, and you.
Not a single one of us would be lost.
We were all demi-gods,
destined for quiet greatness,
playing out our time
and reeling it in,
playing out our time,
and reeling it in.