The Transformation

And soon we should grow up,

Though for now we must

Continue falling with our half-

Grown wings and half-thought —

We won’t become butterflies;

We are butterflies, the kind that

Never stops, the kind

With the brilliant colors;

The kind that is unkind —

The cruelty that directs its fire at ourselves.

So the burning chars our fingers,

Blackens our young and greedy minds,

Digesting the metamorphosis into a cripple;

So that we limp and ache and curse,

That naivety is a disease.

Transforming is the transformed,

Is why we run to walk and fly to fall.

The exposition is the recapitulation —

The same mistakes circling around our narrow lives.

We are the people we turn to and from.

We can’t wait for angels for we are the angels.

We can’t hide from devils for we are the devils.

Shall we run to ourselves, and run away while we’re at it?

And in the meantime, would you like to fall with me?