formation

In the act of becoming,
he shuns one costume for another.
It is not the graceful chaos
of caterpillar-cum-butterfly,

but instead,

a dark-magicked wrenching
of broken-winged bird into panther,
or perhaps a drowning man into an eel,
finally able to breathe and move,
inside his true and slippery skin.

In the act of rebirth,
he rejoices in his own blood.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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