A Stage of My Own Making

From the ashes of my father, I rose.

The world below me.

The heavens above.

I would not stand upon a stage

Built by lesser men.

If I could arrive—untouched.

But a hand

Grasped mine—

I had thought the posture unsuitable.

I didn’t want to look.

But I did.

And in the mirror I saw

A reflection of me:

My own mouth

Speaking their words.

My own spine

Bent for approval.

I had never been rising.

Only floating sideways.

The heavens were never above.

They were here.