Cleansing

It was hardly the same cold
that twirled in on cruel tongues-

Consorts whose backs I've come to face
their former ardor
onerous to oppose-

If it were not for the swallowtail
whose wings are preened,
swathed by new cracks-
parchment turned to lead,
recognition in the futility to fly
again.

That soon, there shall be a 
a chrysalis, a daring shroud,
the natural evolution
that so aches to be found,

so if I'm to believe-
I'll do so in my skin
with not a friend in sight
to let me atone for my sins.