I am in my own little cocoon. A perfect little shell hardened by time watched and spilled over- MomMom always told me that a watched pot never boils. Somewhere, there is a distance laughter. Heart filled and hearty Like comforting food warming the soul on a wintry night. Perhaps a slow cooked soup. He wants me to come back. Begs me on ashy knees, sore from a back bending disposition. I, reluctantly pop my head out. It is too soon. I hibernate here. It feels good. So I stay a little longer. Redecorate the closed in walls and paint a window with the available brushes. At least, I packed the brushes. Would love to open a window. Sure would be nice to smell fresh air. But its stagnant. Filled with stinky, thickened exhalations and darkened chambers. I cannot breathe. I sweat and my perspiration mix with my inhalations and suddenly I choke. I am alone. In this perfect little shell and I cannot come up for air. The opening that was once the rabbit hole leading like a Alice

Life is not trivial waiting upon someone to take it we are expendable to those whose life is not yet blessed within the soul giver and the life presenter who weeps at the mere thought that someone would take it away. -b.r.rivera-taylor An  etheree  poem. The first concrete form I played with and loved upon sight. In order to become a better poet, we must read, study and write both free forms and concrete forms of poetry. Enjoy.

I stepped on a butterfly broke its wings shattered its luminescent arms transcended solely made for air distance to ride in the wind. Veins, exposed blood freely now broken pixelated dots of red crimson delight shattered on a blade of glass next to my heel. I was not thoughtful. purely clumsy and self absorbed as I made my way into my path and buried a creature into another. innocent lost. could not have picked its wings voluntarily knowing that each was put there lovingly by time caressed in a cocoons nest. danced with time, laden with metamorphosis and fruitful bliss bearing an entangled chrysalis engulfed out of the need to grow. birth. reborn. in a next lifetime. i stepped on a butterfly. killed its lighthearted dance from a low hanging branch suckling the nectar off a fallen flower. how... appropriate. nearly serendipitous if a love was to blow a kiss and i was to miss it based on a fallen flower and Poincare with its Chaos Theory held in time, ever