Destiny

Sometimes, the dead think
about us beyond their glitzy
alcove resting on mossy fluff,
emerald sequins in the sun.
What a debut, their minds
at work, revolving above
our simple plateaus of meaty
struggle. They’ve hewn for us,
done the bullheaded work,
and now sit among echelons,
the magnates of promise,
the mystique that bewitches
us here below. We are minions
of sleaze, until they give us
plans for our own destiny.