[via States of Being]

In the final hour of
metamorphosis, the
anticipation is sharpest,
cutting through the
remnants of our hopes,
razors skimming across
the rind’s outer layers.
Errant breezes flicker
the emergent projections,
stridently questing.

It’s what we don’t get
enough of that drives
our lusts; desperately
striving to break our hearts.
Perspective convergences
flaunt our limitations,
our eagerness to underscore
and vivisection our lives.
It is not as if the struggle
has made us any stronger.
from the poem Butterfly Conspiracies by Melissa Songer