My present contribution lurks,
all knowing, sat beneath myself.
Myself, thought known, itself converts
to truth, the fragments, clawed by stealth.
That truth appearing, itself a thing
diminished by its finite time.
Flutters up, fragile wing,
rising, seeking to recline.
I thought myself a butterfly,
a joyous creature to be born.
But flashing scenes, I’m drawn to die,
my memory’s fear, translates to scorn.
But through times’ revelations;
fragmentations of the truth;
the body’s inclinations;
the brief hallucinations;
appears myself a truce.
The grace to know that being free,
depends not on escaping.
True freedom, pray I see,
endures because it’s saving.
It’s saving precious memories
my present self it’s killer.
Bodies are like falling leaves,
an elixir, poor caterpillar.