This isn’t it.
This is not the end.
It is merely a quickening.
Believing that I’m
all together and all alone.
Falling apart,
empty,
decomposition,
decay.

Half-life.
Barely living.
Counting down to zero.

All I have left
is detonation,
destruction,
decimation...

This isn’t it.
This is not the end.
It is merely a quickening.

This is a hatching,
arising from one’s
Chrysalis,
an awakening through
pain and chaos.

This is a trip through
the ****** grinder
to see what you’re made of.

It helps to remember
that the caterpillar
turns into a mass of virtual
Nothingness
before the wings come out.

(I think I read that somewhere.)

It’s said that the butterfly remembers  
those days painfully;

In spite of the fact they hurt so bad,
the wings are worth it.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020