Procaryote

I was about to punish myself for the horrible
transgressions that I had committed, fighting
with my sanity for my sanity,
but then came the sword, down upon all
I held as mine, my dreams, wants,
and paperclipped people, all frayed
beyond recognition, tassels whispering
in the wind - forwards, not back -

I didn't kill myself that day,
for what went down in the ring
was more than a jewel's worth of
precious, and what I learned, my lesson,
what I'd been solemnly swatting for
the past nineteen and a half years,
had come, bearing with it an empty sack
of shoddy patchwork but within it, promised,
the promise, that it was fuller than
the superlative of what I had been yearning for.

Tucked away, I rose from my problems,
as a phoenix, sans the fire, sans the ash,
sans the smoke and mirrors and stampede of
interest into the egg that I had hatched from.
I flew, without wings, without anyone in particular
looking out for my inexistent blazing trail in the sky.
I beat no wings, I beat all odds,
I scoured and developed and penetrated
and found hope beneath my preening brothers,
fawns of the new day,
depth-receptive and drowsy.

I fell out of that yonder's dream,
whipped by a cloud into the obscurity of a concrete
path by a creek, flowing downstream as
water doesn't comprehend, but just does,
and I watched it, from my dead perch, where it went.

It never happened. It never will.
My will's not meant to take me any place but home.
So I say I flew, I have defeated and triumphed,
and I disregard the order of events to impress,
yet, even this, now, doesn't satisfy.

The moments pass, the moment remains.