i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.

As I took a walk outside,
I noticed something that caught my eye.
Twisted in the grass, ingrained with dirt,
What I saw made my heart hurt.

Monarch's wings I had found,
Which gave me feelings so profound.
An intense sadness, helplessness, fear,
Overcame me as I beheld these artifacts dear.

In death or life, they must have been torn,
These beautiful wings that the creature bore.
I picked them up and held them close,
These wings that symbolized what I feared the most-

Losing myself, my biggest part,
The part of my soul that is dearest to my heart.
And what for my memories, good and bad?
What if I couldn't remember anything; wouldn't that be sad?

The monarch's wings sit still on my dresser,
A reminder of my constant stressor,
Yet also comforting me just the same,
As I pass through each day, feeling slightly more brave.

She's so beautiful, its distracting.
Angel in the eyes,
But I can tell by her smiles,
that she loves to sin.
Her innocence is just a disguise,
that she wears like a grin.

I miss,
staying in my room,
on rainy afternoons,
making each other wet.

I said to myself,
   "Someday soon you will
     be dead and gone.
     Your consciousness dissolved.
     Forever."

Myself replied,
   "What does this mean?
     I have no experience
     with which to relate."

"This is true," I acknowledged, "but
     you possess imagination
     and thus may conceive
     of opposites."

"Yes," Myself agreed, "but
     imagination can only construct
     with what has been received.
     To conceive of
     the void of all conception
     is beyond my parameters."






- fr