Vessels in time emulate arms.

If I were mistaken that the grandiose metamorphosis was the metaphysical butterfly into the dawning of bullets; puncturing the veil…It is because my old soul emerged early into epiphany.

Soon sailboats will anchor on my wings...Born foot first. Halo around my neck...Mama cried...Bring her beneath the lights they said. I was not breathing...Then, I frantically wailed. Within the light. Within lights. Death before life...Encapsulated breech thoughts in my tiny body...I knew things.

I am the epitome of strangeness. In my corner writing. Useless depth.

Layer by layer the veil of the masses reveal doors to stench. Pungent wounds in which my eyes fly through. The alchemy of no return beckons. Do my sacrificial hands touch the heart ticking?...

 

Help the squandered.

 

They are submerged in concrete notions of notoriety. Where was the longing to feel the womb beneath the grass? Something beats...Verses in graves reborn in stale breath. Inhaled writing within fog…

 

I evaporate.

 

Syllables create my blessings and curse. It is always the poet that wanders the weep...Raises the bread. Smells the blood. Runs in the vein. The strange molecule. The atomic artistry of the scar…Raw nerve and supernovas. Exploding ink...

 

A poet knows it.

 

Flailing and saving.

The metamorphosis into humanity.

Blood. Wings. Words. Emulating arms into tidal waves and wings. Halo around neck...

 

Jump.

Swim.

Drown.

Weep.

Live.

And, write of this strangeness.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata