The process of becoming other than,
  the shedding of the old by way of time
  the hands upon the clock traverse their span,
  the ever fleeting moment reigns, sublime.

The emptiness of all objective forms,
  the rushing river, never stepped in twice,
  the reconfiguration of all norms,
  the virtues of lost ages seen as vice,

The elements converge and then react,
  the caterpillars weave themselves cocoons,
  the world amends its stock of gathered facts,
  the moths emerge, in flight to greet the moon,
  
   The firmament, destroyed and rearranged,
     the universal essence, found in change.

Work, work, work
I work just like clock work
All the money I make
Is not for my sake
My family left a lot to be desired
I guess helping them backfired

One day when I woke from a holler
My room seem so much smaller
My legs moved awkwardly around
There were six all big and brown
I skittered along the floor
As I tried to get out the door

When I finally got out
I heard a shout
My family was petrified
You would think they died
They looked like an explorer
Looking at a bear in horror

I think we can agree
That my parents let me be
Even though she was scared
My sister still cared
She feed me garbage
But she soon departed

As time went on
I became a demon spawn
They through apples at me
I liked them better when they let me be
One of them got stuck in my back
Causing a large crack

I am slowly dying
From this apple rotting
As I sit and cry
I think of all the good that went by
As I lay down my head
I hear them say, "Hurrah, It's dead."

1.A walk with one's ego

"Take your ego out for a walk", the master asked, all aspirant monks
one monk who took his pet across the river left it there and returned
the rest after a nice walk hand in hand, brought each, little wet but
rejuvenated, missing master's word in it's real sense altogether,
only for the wise one, the door opened, others had a lesson, painful

2.Tending one's ego
Two  monks , still not ready to part with
their egos,tended both the way each deemed fit ,
The first, so obedient, followed his ego  like a lamb,
one other made it follow him with it's strange requests,
a third the first one to **** his ego with his sword of mind
kept smiling seeing the misery of both still not bold enough.

3 Catty

Ego, was her, fluffy black pet *****
her show piece, she always loved to pamper,
crafty was the creature, hell bent  to keep
her reputation as an attention grabber,
the fact was this, the cat and her mistress
were thoroughly insecure, borrowed colors,
caterwauling in the sound of screeching tires,
she mated with Tom cats that came in jumping walls ,
her mistress was entertained, felt proud,
so ego grew large to the stature of a feline 'top dog',
it's metamorphosis made her owner too bloat up,
Ego one would have to think is her alter ego.

4.I won't ditch my guide dog

Every one thought she was nice, why so egoistic
gets her way every time,  projecting her larger than life ego.
"Well it's my guide dog to get around, as I am one blind person,
I am not yet a renunciate on a quest, I chew my bones too well"

Surrounded yet completely alone,
It's the rule that our mothers taught us, always stay together.

Together, entanglement binds it together,
Predators take at ease to engulf, consume.

Those that swim, flow solo.

So I remain huddled, I merge and now I'm surrounded,
All the same, completely isolated.

I stay for hope, protection and direction, is this a false impression?

Split, torn in silence I suffer, So I turn back to reflect,
"I had, I have control, right?"

I segregate and eliminate the feeling of metamorphosis,
From prayer to predator.

Now I've shifted gears, further up the food chain once more,
Again, I'm surrounded yet completely alone.

Though, this time I've grown!


*Poem by Lionelle Nsarhaza

Old selves die easily.
They whine their superseded demands
And the winds of change
Blow buildings down on them.

Or slide into a warm bath of contentment
And gasp out their last as the water drains,
Marooning them like bathtoys of despair.

One has expired in my arms.
His face turns to smoke
Like a ghost beginning to form.

Tenderly, I drag him to the backyard
To hide him with the others.
I mark where they’re buried
So oblivion knows where to find them.

Falling down the rabbit hole,
Into the world they call Wonderland.
Falling and falling with subtlety and grace,
No way up, but down down down…
A portal to the unknown.
Where I will land, who I will find,
I do not know.

But gravity takes control,
There is no going back, this I know.
All that I knew,
All that I was,
Has taken its place in the past.
And as I fall further and further,
Darkness taking over,
Pieces of me are left behind.
Memories, no longer kept alive.

In colours, I once saw.
My mind, I once knew so well.
My thoughts, so simple, so clear,
There was certainty, no fear.
All have seemed to disappear.

This body I now carry, I do not recognize.
My hands and my feet, have taken new shape.
Visions of black and grey,
I can no longer escape.
I am forced to welcome its unfamiliarity,
its uncanny presence;
Experience its limitations, explore its essence.
Understand the other that has violated my entity,
Claims power over my destiny.

The fall seems endless,I’ve grown weary,
Numb to my transformation.
If only I could reach its destination,
Feel the ground beneath my feet again,
Control my every move, advance at my own pace;
Enter Wonderland, a new home,
I am forced to embrace.

Inter-species dating never had it so good.
Shape-shifting constantly, he could be a man one minute,
a bear the next.
Old as the hills, then young as Apollo.

In her butterfly form she fluttered near his head,
and if he was a bear just then, and had
eaten no honey, this could be dangerous.

If he was a man, and was at peace, the colors of her
powdery wings would delight him beyond measure.
Blowing by him lightly, she would swoon a bit,
and the transformation would begin.

Dark eyes, slender arms, a thick mane of hair,
all the attributes of a woman would suddenly appear.

When they were at peace together, oceans became full
and smooth as glass,
sacred rivers flowed together, and their separate colors
became a new one.

But like some planets, their orbits were unsteady.
Peace was fleeting.

A tremor would go through the worlds,
and the fighting would begin.

Monumental destruction ensued.
Cinders blew by where hearts had been.

Over time, and blessed by journeys through the sky,
a new peace was formed, in friendship.
A new understanding began.
A trust began to build.

An end to this story is unthinkable.

Summer.

Summer of losing control. Summer of giving up words because my foggy despair has been too much for thinking or writing about the bursting maple leaves or flush of clouds overhead or the thunder of loving and being loved. Summer of hunger. Summer of scrutiny in front of every mirror, deadened while simultaneously feeling like a stripped nerve held to flame. Summer of running from. Summer of going in circles and circles, looking for the unlocked door and finding none, just stoic plaster and echoing vibrations of sadness. Summer of playing both puppet master and marionette, dominating my own strings with an unforgiving hand [we control microcosms when we cannot control larger things; we count and obsess and ritualize because the reality we can't face will devour us if we don’t, and this reality is that life can be as unexpected and gut-wrenching as a small child stepping innocently onto a minefield while We the spectators look on, aghast]. Summer of doubt. Summer of wondering whether or not anyone has any love left for me, and if so, why? Why such an infinite reserve for my struggling tangle of inelegance and repeated failure? Summer of breaking the surface not for myself but for anybody who has ever felt like this, for anyone who has woken up with a hook through their gills and a throat twisted airless by invisible fists, for anybody who’s flexed their jaws in spite of it and let their tongues dance, for anyone brave. Summer of tremendous beauty witnessed from the wrong side of the glass. Summer of sunset and moonrise and daisies, daisies, daisies, so exquisite yet so far away from where I’ve been living; this morgue of nuclear silence and absent pulse. Summer of polarity. Summer of numbness swooping into ecstasy then dipping into bottomless rage with no middle ground, just explosions of zeal and explosions of ache, but always, always explosions. Summer of lightning. Summer of determination. Summer of humidity between two hands holding. Summer of finality and chin lift and aftermath, of rubble as my foundation and destruction as my momentum, and I, rising like a balloon, unstoppable. Summer of transformation. Summer of trying on selves like vintage gowns, rejecting one after the next with the growing panic that accompanies the fact that this is who I am—endlessly, inexorably, relentlessly—that I can try to run from her or shape her into someone else, but she will always return, this girl of hardness and softness, this woman of perseverant fire, this funny little garden of mishap and epiphany, that there is nowhere left to hide, just this room where I stand cornered, forced finally to turn and embrace myself with a fury of welcome.