this poem's for you, broadcast to the aether, arriving where it must, or when

author-pilgrim of the outer reaches
where is your service? my friendship
is not at your convenience, for you to
demand then reject at your whim,
then demand again. your pretense
of being wronged is in your own
self-interest: I never changed.

I remained consistent, granite to your cloud.
you come and go, just the weather,
now I give you no more solace.
what grace I have's my own.
no regrets, and this is not goodbye:
I comprehend at last you were sincere
if fleeting. I know nothing more ephemeral.
what I won't do for you, now,

is everything. I won't pick up your sticks.
when your house crumbles away, learn to
excavate yourself unaided. my shovel is no more
on loan to you. rewrite your own revision.
now peace of mind's no longer brainwashed
equivalencies, assumed objectivities and tasks.
your task just now is to find a place to stand.
on your own battered pattern. make it into

a lesson I never taught you. I'm done.