I sit on my throne
Gazing along the runway.
A collection of unearthed, jagged stone.
Paused. Silent. Waiting for you to say.
‘This path must not taint my root.
How dare nature feel it is above me.
I expect a smooth, red carpet ascend for my boot
Not an obstacle or game for all to see.’
I take a step from my pedestal
gliding in force through the air.
An intoxicating perfume, a scent for the fool
whose anger from the wind dance they are keen to share.
‘This wind must not tango or waltz with my atmosphere
And enforce its musk on my days costume.
I insist it must calm, smell only of clear
Not coat my rustled being with essence of 1st world gloom.’
I glance over my moving creation
Absorbing my laboratory and its viewing platform.
A shape not moulded by inspiration
But a result of economical norm.
‘This ache must vanquish from my being.
Be gone with tired, hurt and pain.
For this shell of a person, created with meaning
Forged an ego, too good to follow nature’s reign.’
Weena is a Bristol-based artist, feminist and garlic enthusiast. This is her second poem for Nichts.