seeding from within
for the birthing of yourself
this time –
You will
burst through your own damned skin,
exploding the social shell
into a mess of flowering pulp;
midair
you
take shape into flight.
You strange and wonder full fruit –
filling the air with your juice,
for the hungry
who can only long
with painful bellies
unsure if they actually saw you
take your wings
into the sky –
Are you
never to land
on mundane, again?
Joy calls from you now
as your span stirs the air.
You circle up –
you orbit out –
a spiral map for the
gaping below.
Life as Improv 