I asked the zoo-snake, as it
Basked in the glow of
An artificial sun,
Bathed in the ichor of its rebirth
'Does it hurt?'
I nodded to the frail shell
Of its shed skin, the
Ghost-scales perfectly rendered

'Hurt is the wrongword, it
Begins as a shrug, a
Loosening of bindings, like
A well-read book starting to
Work free of it's cover. I
Know from memory, that
Changing is necessary, yet
It's stirrings disquiet me still'

I saw my reflection in the
Glass of his world, a wraith
Hovering outside
Imposed on his wooden cave
The water where he dipped
His forked tongue
Never rippling or changing

'Is it akin to dying?', I
Question him again and
Wait for his thoughts to
Catch up with his mouth

'All things die, given enough time
Love, memories, convictions,
All pass, but this is a
Temporary dying, this is
Being a ghost in the world,
Still breathing'

We are not so different, You and I
Both vital in this moment, though
I would that I, too, could turn my gaze so keenly
To the truth of who I have been