The grapes are sour

Magic is a fickle fidgety master,
the ritual for regeneration has begun
telling me the secret being the veil.
Ancient deity responded my call
telling me words of wisdom:
"You need to leave your bad habits behind
and create new good nourishing ones,
as your weakness stems in your fear
of getting old, and dying!"
Not really, Sherlock, I knew all that.
"But did you act and made a step
in the right direction?"
The ethereal voice said,
before dissappearing in the void
that exists behind the silence.

How can you redirect your annoyance
to a shappeles, non-physical entity?
The oddity of its wise words
still made me angry, but I do think
that I am not angry with the ancient god,
as much as I am angry
with myself, reaching the eternal question:

How did we get here, to that situation
where the random combination
of persistent little damaging acts
led us to the catastrophic results
that we can see now?

I bow and I am thinking
that I reap what I sow,
and now I'm ready to go
for one more try,
as high as the sky in July.

Fly, little buterfly,
fly!