What Claim On Me Do You Have
What claim on me do you have—
O Specter robed in lawful guise—
Who counts my breath, who weighs my heart,
Who peers through hollow, measuring eyes?
Body, mind, and soul you name,
As if they were your lawful due;
You tally scars, you number pain,
And still demand what yet is new.
What more must I be forced to show,
Too often, in this single frame?
I bled over and over again—was it not enough?
To prove the substance of my flame?
Do I possess a soul you need,
To feed your engines, cold with greed?
Must spirit, pain down a titled deed,
Be signed away for all to see ?
I am exhausted—drained and worn
By free labor of breath and thought;
A prisoner to that endless claim,
For all I gave and never sought.
My mind—once fertile as the field,
Before the blight, before the chains—
Now lies in furrows dug by hands
Harvesting all but leaving no grain.
So hear me, void, and answer true:
By what dark right, by what decree,
Do you still ask—when all is spent—
What claim on me do you have?
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