.

I have a death's grip on this torch
welded by torque,
by the bones that grind against my hip
as I push back against the tide
but the torch will never leave my side
I carry it around to burn things down.

And in the flowering,
the wounded walls
I bring about an empowering
even as I fall
and it spiderwebs out
from my fingertips
in the finest pattern
stronger than steel cables
it isn't that I'm unable
it isn't that I'm annoyed
it's just that I have no choice.

And in the flowering,
that is given voice,
I suppose it is empowering
to stand your ground
in the hot-sweat air
and state calm and clear
that it just isn't fair
and that you'll have your way
your pattern-fine way
in the insidious heat of the day.

I have a life's grasp on this torch.
Fused by stalks
by the vines that grow against my clasp
as I push back against the pattern.