Metamorphosis – By @decadokhan
By Tomasz Wojcik
My scab personal reflection turns into a poem.
Nothing returns. Such times are long gone
Only mirrors gather darkness in my own reflection
Past vision they show is empty and cruel
I know thee – you are the road, I the traveller
I walk two steps back and one step forward.
My previous characters are already here
Standing and musing on the newly appeared
We sit in a circle glooming of gravity
And only cicadas herald activity
We start to move, shoulder and neck
And produce something I would call a check.
The first of us – it is me
With whom love comes to all that be
My world has bloomed as a grand nimbus
Fire burns clear when I meet with a dream
And as tree I am – straight, a grounded seam.
The second of us – it is me
With whom hate is a strong entity
My world creaks and withers in spleen
Sharp a thing sparks, tis’ not a tear
Coming from numb as water fear.
The third of us – it is me
Marked on my soaked sleeve
Pain befalls as darkness veil
Path widens and stretches here
An experience calls to arms near.
And the forth of us whom I know not
Whom I shall teach humility
With hopeful breath
With fixated gaze
I rush to pick my heart
So fragile and dear.