Snake Shedding Skin

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Snake Shedding Skin

Losing it.

Iâ€™m ready for the other now.
Something other than what I know,
something other than what Iâ€™ve done,
something Iâ€™ve never heard before,
something I can learn from.

Iâ€™m ready to shed this skin,
this old worn down rusty pelt that
wears like a mud pack,
cracking on my body
like ripped and ribbed old flesh.
Peeling shards of scale.
Dry but still hissing.

Iâ€™m losing it.

Iâ€™m weary with music.
Weary at the skin of styles
snaking through my summer lawn
while the dry leaves of memory
dance in the air around the yard,
doing the floating handerchief
without lighting anywhere.
Vaporous essays of old editions
over thought and fading,

losing it!

Did your mother hold you close to her bare skin
with the softest embrace, smelling
sweet and newly born? Did she nurse you
serenely?

Or, did you grow up nervous
and inspired by so much
that you couldnâ€™t reach anyone
with the significance of your observations
until you realized they never mattered anyway.

The ages you have lived, a different you each time
same as you are now, the old you cracked and crystalized,
a baby chick in a broken egg
pecking at the wall.
Pecking messages to a world that wasnâ€™t
even when it was.

Keep what lasts.
Shed the past.

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