To be fully alive
one must stall the engine
that carries you through
this ossified human stage.
Egg as you are now, indebted
to your job and reputation
to hold you together
for lack of a being inside,
you must break the engine
with the understanding
that as messy as you may become,
you are on the verge
of true incarnation at last:
not reincarnation,
for that is your first life
gestating within
the thin tough walls
you have shown the world
while your shell ran on a track
toward the shattering moment
when you will come forth from it
not as human — perhaps as dragonish
snake or armored hawk; smoke
trailing behind you, the wreck
of the engine piled in your wake, at last
able to breathe deeply, to fly.
Dark Matter 