Hanging My Molt

I am not who I used to be

I am a new person
with ripe, new skin
precocious in atomic intent

I have shed
my old flesh
and blame it for being frivolous
but still keep it hanging in the closet
for decorative regress

I am not what I was
I am/have been
worn away with natural consequence –
flood damage of old friends
and solar winds of ideas
without an end
tornados of lost opportunity
that lost their spin

I am no longer a child,
I am tired
of jumping from trees
believing I will fly

I am no longer amazed
by the countless first-times
that are now ‘once then’
or many times later

I am a new person
wiser and shallower and whatever I am
with all the almosts and
the not even closes

I am not who I was
no matter how vacuous
it is to say so

I have scars and dependence
and money paid
in place of love and innocence
and the beckon
of “what if”

I have this new jumpsuit
so skin-tight that it may be skin, itself –
replaced and cheap and worn
with much too much to eat
and too much death to have been born

I wait as I wait
with a layer of sames
As I shed and I shed
until I’m dead as I came

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