Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 3 (185.)

Metamorphosis,
Megamorph, oh shit,
remember those games we used to play?
Everything had an extreme descriptor
to pull kids in,
“Ultimate Moves,” “Final Forms,” “True Final Boss,”
super extra gnarly et cetera et cetera.
Like there was actually an end-all.
When every day is just a step on a stairway,
life has more sense; a successful move,
no matter the direction,
imbues each act with meaning.
Not a straight and narrow tunnel to a graveyard,
no fire at the end to commemorate our culmination;
we eat daily of non-lotus petals
and so we grow and shrink,
wax and wane,
devote ourselves to the sacred and profane
in attempts to learn something.
Ask any marathon runner
if the finish line is the point
and their eyes will laugh you off.
It’s the running,
it’s the moving,
active changing –
metamorphosis.

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