I’m an accident, they say
A few strands short of DNA
And while I humbly stumble
They buzz and hop and bumble
Right outside my dark window
They zap, evap, and kindle
Ideas seep through my pores, unspoiled
That’s when they spray their engine oil
And I liken it to sharp stained glass
This haystack fervor of being trapped
But I’m no rose petal, no son, no saint
In a world that sees the colors for the paint
And there’s a thin crack running through my back
But I can’t break without some contact
Till then, I bend, deflect, retract
A monstrous truth in their house of facts