Did you drop into existence,
light as a feather,
or did you make the world implode
with your erupting presence?
300 million years ago,
animal but human,
human and needy,
riding on backs of giants
to travel to farwaway places,
and then soaring...
Extracting anger and desperation,
tying yourself tight to an image of hope,
to an image of transformation,
so we humans can only desire
to be worthy of your donation...
Nothing flusters you,
and even though your wings
are both blue,
there is nothing sad about you.
You tuck away the empty chasms
of a soul made to feel too old,
made to feel that it should not
aspire to be the sun,
but merely its shadow...
and you paint their
switched off, tired eyes
with ineffable hues of strength.
Dragonfly, you show me
that through your years,
you've cried and you
fought your battles and
some old parts of you died...
and you showed me that
rebirth and imperfection
aren't missing but whole,
that mess isn't haunted
or unwanted but needed
for exploration...
If every particle of ours, every chemical
that went into a single thought
could be stored away in its designed,
picturesque room,
how could we claim to be mysteries?
Dragonfly, now it's my turn
to give away my pieces of decay,
let them burn.
You are expectedly lingering at my window,
you've always been,
and I'll no longer keep you waiting.
