Becoming

How becoming someone could be so 

belittling, the profound mystery 

of existence, lost. 

And the little epiphanies

slowly dripping off.

Later you sew a melancholy 

fine and prudent,

something that resembles hope

while being so desperately hopeless.

You ask,

you ask life for a moment

for time to stay still

for words to become malevolent

for your speech to 

kill the thrill,

for your own little giveaways

were given away

in some holy time of belonging. 

The flowers you planted,

the music you composed,

the poetry you wrote,

the moves you bestowed,

were they even truly yours in the first place?

The epitome of withering and withering and withering,

fanatic prose along the lines 

keeping you waiting. 

What do you see

have become of the wise,

of the cries,

and what do you tell them 

of the person in disguise

What have you become 

oh my human!

Just a little sadness,

and you don't seem to dare anymore. 

Just a little madness,

and you don't seem to care anymore. 

The little daffodils, 

the little plane tickets,

the charm of espresso,

the cheesy baguettes,

the books you love,

the movies you adore, 

and the essence of liberation. 

What kind?

You know not. 

But, alive. Lost. 

Found, you don't want to be. 

And just then,

when knowledge is there,

hopelessly you stand.

Being lost was being found. 


 

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