Molting

In the elongated season

of our suspect growth

we sprouted rattle tails,

dulled diamond scales.

Wished for wings.

Did I.

To fly, defy,

the downward pull

dragging over  path of stone and bone.

The cloying coil of us

girded,  smothered,  trussed,

precursor to a molting must

when shredded underbellies

burst the seams

of incompatible dreams.

Shed the shame, the blame.

There's new born flesh

fresh sprouted fledgling wings

to feel the sun, the rain.

© grapher  January 2014