I Am Not The Oxen
You spoke of oxen,
of days that drag behind one another,
each pulling the next
without question,
without end.
But I am not the oxen.
I do not follow
for the sake of following,
nor do I feel the weight of time
as though it were a rope tied around my neck.
I have tasted the silence between words,
the spaces where thoughts form
but never break through.
I know that pain,
but it is not my chains.
I will not wear them.
You speak of repetition,
but I see a rhythm,
a pulse that drives me forward,
not backward.
I will not be reduced to a cycle,
not the echo of a scream unvoiced,
not the hollow of a breath once taken.
My past is not a place to return to
like a cracked record spinning round,
it’s a thread I weave,
a pattern of my own.
I have burned what you call identity,
only to find
a new dawn rising
from the ashes of yesterday.
So speak of the oxen,
but know this:
I do not belong to them.
I am the spark in the night,
the silence that refuses to stay quiet,
the force that breaks the endless loop,
and I will never be your repetition.