My heart aches with a burning pressure,
As if, one day,
some godlike thing of light and power
will burst from the chrysalis of my chest
with a spray of blood
and bits of bone.
Radiant with the moisture of its newness,
it will climb to the rooftop
in the noonday Sun
and unfurl its sticky limbs
fold by crinkled fold.
With wings spread full at sunset,
its shadow will stretch for miles
and cast foreboding thoughts
over the unaware
and the unexpectant.
Where will my spirit be then?
Will it soar as the white beast takes flight
to vanquish kingdoms
and rejuvenate the world?
Or, more likely,
Will I be found whimpering on the floor
in the afterbirth?