Same As It Ever Was .?.
With every year, the Spring births nothing but perennial dread. The hanging chrysalis’s looming prize inside reminds me of the thinning thread.
I walk, breathing soured air stained with ripeness’ stink. Wrinkles line my eyes. They look like words if you squint, stories if you stare, or haunting trails if you dare blink.
Stale tears freeze to snowflakes, but they are just sand falling through the hourglass all the while. I see a stone face and a cold heart wrapped up in a preemptive coffin. I watch that coffin crack a smile.
Crumbling away in the way water flows, layers peel like scabs and resemble all those footsteps tattooed with souls. The butterfly affects you to the core. As it eats the sky, a thought is born of a bitten hole in the starlight, a hole that strikes me with familiarity right through a heart I never knew hid deep inside of me. And from that hole peeks out a new day when my eyes will be too old to behold it:
When I come knocking at my door, face to face with no mirror in sight, I say, “butterfly, you go hatch anew, I’ll wave you on, as I pass into the night’s light.” Or so I thought, but out of the corner of my eye, the chrysalis opens wide. And as quick as a coin tailspins, I grin. All that you’ve just read, is of a time ahead without me looming over it...
Because, of the butterfly or the chrysalis, neither came first. For it was a moth that out of the cocoon burst. And a laugh without a passing gaze back over my shoulder to the thoughts and time wasted. The laugh carries me fourth to the stoop of your door.
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