You think you’ve got it together,
desiccated in your fancy wrapping,
hopes and fears crammed
in neat ceremonial bottles,
hunkered, bunkered
in the tiny vault
of your design.  

The one way in,
the one way free,
fit to a diminished self,
makes a diorama
of your grave.

You prop the hatch
and softly call,
shy of your own voice
echoing beneath a golden mask,
beckoning with withered fingers.
We all know, deep down—
I mean, any fool can plainly see—
that no human being
can fit through there.

Futile rescue attempts
performed on schedule,
pantomimed salvation,
placate consciences.
Pity shrugs wearily.

All they can do
is tap the glass
and put on a smile,
carry you around,
set you where you can see a life
you might have had,
air you out from time to time
to slow the decay.

Maybe it’s better this way.
If you were floating out here,
naked, atrophied,
clutching your visions,
what’s left of you
would be torn apart.

Burn it down
from the inside.
Become ash.
Bet on rebirth.
Take my fire.