Lyfe

The butterfly, ebbs then flows. The arms punched holes in the cocoon. Feeling freedom, long last, she’d been incubating for a century at least, gathering all the powers from her world of shadows, and learning persuasion in imperfect shapes around her. She emerges, blood on her lips. And she bestows me with a kiss. “With this, see all things hidden from your feeble vision, and spend eternity in a minute.′ I fall, and awake in a tomb. And as I squirm around, I flinch, bruise up against the stone, it aches my bones, and there’s something else, this strange protrusion from my back. I touch what are silk feathers. I strut them, flex them, instinctively I turn into a moth. I flutter out the crevice in the tomb. And I meet her. “Dear sister, now I am not alone.”