sits silently in
silk spun cocoons
with no intention
of cracking the egg
answers the ring
pauses the play
lights a smoke
talks for hours
hangs up
resumes the game
keeps to itself
doesn’t leave the house
has been doing this all week
becoming something else
waiting for the fur
to transform
into feathers
for the bones
to hollow out
and stretch
into angelic wings
useless
heavy
unable to lift the sluggish
man sized structure
without some new inspiration
of the anti-self (you)
the heart still small
unable to pump the blood
and chemical ferocity
to lift the enormous breastplate
of the animal (me)
doesn’t let the end come
doesn’t let the thrill cheapen
into manifestation…
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