Cocoon

A fat, false-eyed caterpillar consumed Liberty
inexorably, leaf-by-leaf, stripped her bare
leaving a hardened chrysalis-nation spinning
hypnotically in a chill global wind.

Beneath layered fear and isolation
truth and freedom have been transformed
into a black, all-knowing moth
with wings wide enough
to obliterate dissention.

Driving

We think the past vapor, faded
ghosts unworthy of resurrection or introspection
dissipating behind us as we speed recklessly
into the future, heads out the window
hair afire, eyes streaming impotent tears of woe and joy.
It doesn’t seem worth the effort to pull over and reflect
far easier to squander our souls, to taste the black
drag of criticism, ridicule, stale fear, to believe the doubting
chorus singing monotonously in the background
until we arrive in the middle of nowhere, wondering
how we ended up so far from our own truth.
It is in this solitary place we remember
ourselves, unchanged and immutable
cradled delusions evaporate
burning possibility lingers
like sweet, unforgettable perfume.