I swear I didn’t start this one intending to give the Queen a chance to reply to yesterday’s sonnet. She just busted on in. Yes, I know the allegory is about as subtle as a meat axe. Therapy’s going fine, why do you ask?
Inside, the forests go on for miles
seven thousand in every direction,
limitless views of inhuman perfection.
Limitless choices, millions of styles.
Pity the fragments that flicker and die?
Must I mourn each frown’s death, weep for each grin?
Must each thought forgotten add to my sin?
Is it my fault not all wax wings can fly?
Tear at your plastic and I’ll give you fur.
Rip out your eyes – I’ll tell you what to see.
Your way has failed, so put your trust in me,
I’ll take us back home to the creatures we were.
Put Caliban back in the womb of the tree,
and never mind whatever you saw occur.