Scripted

When I reached the apex
I had all of the pieces within.
In an instant, I saw the map
that led me up the pyramids.

Now I had wings, I could even hear it.
But before I outpaced my ego,
I decided to walk.
Flapping every ounce of my humility.

Then I went home, across the Atlantic.
I could travel, I could fly, I could anything.
I was immune.
And so glad for Egypt.

So I was in my room, marveling at the pictures.
Feeling so wise I'd written of my own marriage.
I don’t know why, but it was November,
and I was shot. No, I was ambushed.

It came from the skies, karmically specific;
it was more than personal — it went intimate.
And as every circumstance winked at me,
I was caught in my own rhyming. Poetically.

I’d left no open windows. For I didn’t need it.
Alas, a star polarized over my screen, atomically provocative.
Like an errant electron finding itself a pole positive,
it was hopeless, perhaps even catastrophic.

Let it be known — I carried no dark matter
in my pockets when I trod the sands of old.
Lightly I deciphered the letters, got myself back home,
and was shot in the back almost one year ago.