WINGS

Waking-up I’m lost, and wondering
Whether the caterpillars are better off as butterflies
Or they’re just forced to change,
And then I’m scrambling in the dark for either the light-switch
Or a purpose, moving to just a single beat these days,
The wing-beats of a butterfly
Perhaps an incessant cry
To return to their caterpillar life,
Their better life without wings,
Without the constant sense of duty to fly.
Then I’m up, or sometimes I’m bang-down,
Forever misplacing my keys,
My wallet,
My phone
(A dead weight in my pocket, a cold stone)
But still I rouse, my fire still lights,
Fuelled by hope, maybe Promethian flame;
With three drinks it leaves, with four and it comes back again.
I wonder whether the butterflies feel lost,
Suddenly blessed with the ability to fly,
Because I’m always given reasons to live
And yet I’m always wondering why.
Why work, why kiss, why fuck, why try?
I text the dead, and no reply.
So bring on the seasons. Bring on the change:
I’m a nostalgic caterpillar
And I refuse to change,
Close-in the winter, freeze the ground,
Reinforce our shallow-grave’s impound –
The mornings are getting darker,
Haemorrhaging hope by the pint,
Then some days I’m up and ready to go
As though I’ve got some place to go, some God-given right
To live this way: pint, pint.
Scouring the obits each week for someone I know. Knew.
It gets easier as the slender grip of reality loosens,
As we get used to how they come and go,
They get their wings and off they go
But people like you, people like me,
We get our wings and choose not to flee.