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.

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.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.