Many Lives


Life unfolds

in spasmodic dramaturgy

Performing a rite of passage

On those days, between

two loves.

One dead, like a dry river bed

and the other, an anticipated dawn.

 

The days, or years in between

Open its bosom like a tropical desert.

The shadows one leaves behind become

Birds of the Western Sahara. And you too slide,

from birth and beginnings, to stories of

early spring and aborted winter.

 

Days spread out like an atlas

and you become the land and the sea,

pockets of displeasures and

spent out waste lands, fading

like vanishing islands.

 

The interlude is a life span by itself

Where you begin as an unhatched soul.

Design the routes of an insect cycle

and wait for the light, to flutter out

your butterfly wings.

 

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