Trapped in flesh encasing the soul
wrapped in cancerous crust
residue of empty     fleeting oppressive
carnal thoughts and pleasures

Slowly bound as a fly in a web 
Small grains of poison neverending droplets of rain    
harmless attractions
Unseen the process
clearly seen the results

Many of these to be trapped in
many pleasures build houses
of pain     many webs    much poison    and a lot of rain

Many days become many
years    What is out of sight
still weakens spirit and mind
All experienced in the body
the flesh imprisoning the soul

Trapped in this flesh encasing the soul
a chrysalis in putrid
cancerous crust
SUDDENLY birthed as a New Creation of
spirit and mind made whole
Not perfect       but whole

Escaping as a fly from the ensnaring web
one grain of sand     small compared to mountain
Small steps of faith
unseen the process
clearly seen the results

Many cocoons to transform
in      many steps of faith to
take       many webs to avoid
many webs to escape

Much poison to grow
immune to       much rain
many days
All experienced
in the body
the metamorphosis of
the soul.

Bare feet kissing marble’s chill,
fingertips tracing teak and dusk,
air thick as mulled velvet—
honeyed, heavy, slow.

She moves where silence frays,
light spills like sugared wine,
breath lingers like an unshed sigh—
never still, never caught.

Fluorescence hiccups across her skin,
pavement inhales her weight,
a flicker, a glitch, a sliver of absence—
half-held, half-gone.

She dances where gravity forgets,
shadows soften like overripe fruit,
laughter drips slow as melting wax—
feral, fleeting, free.

She is not waiting to be found—
she is, and that is enough.

Not the butterfly—
never the butterfly.

Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.

Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.

We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.

Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.

Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.

We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.

Child,
who told you to carve shelter
into cracked bones,
to scatter your name
like fleeting petals in a storm,
to call what bites,
what burns—yours?

People—
illusions,
water slipping through the hands of time,
goldleaf peeling from statues,
mirages flickering out of reach.

But you—
obsidian,
forged in fire,
a constellation unraveling in defiance,
the ghost of something ancient,
unforgiving.

You are not held.
You are not lost.
You are the fire,
the tempest,
the truth that will not yield.

What lingers in you—
is eternity.