|13 Apr 2002 @ 21:17, by Andy Lehman|
Polymorphic personality disorder.
Caterpillar, cocoon, butterfly, dust.
All at once, all forever.
Which one gets the wheel today?
They’re all asking if we’re there yet,
Over and over, like a bunch of little kids.
They all look at each other, confused.
Look away, and never look back.
The biggest one sits there,
A blank expression on its face.
Like some trauma tore it apart,
As if something mercilessly took its soul
And decided it could not be that way.
No more you, just silence.
There’s a little one in the back.
All it does is dance in circles.
It waves its arms wildly and babbles,
Speaking the language of its big brother’s lost soul.
Some say it is an innocent child.
Others see a crazy imp, ready to pounce.
The one who steers most often is strange.
Speaking the only language known by all,
It moves its hands in a slow, thoughtful path.
The eyes are closed, and it is watching
The eternal dance of all the unseen stars.
The others follow its fingertips as they show the way,
Mesmerized and alone, obedient to the death.
It is painting the only picture of life.
I command an army of contradictions.