The Metamorphosing and the Moirai

The Metamorphosing and the  Moirai

Does the caterpilling Painted Lady

engorged as if by ponderous thoughts

ever tap together her antennae in entreaty

to Clotho for exuviation  

from the spinning thread of uncertainty

as the last running stitch sews

her into a chrysalid mystery?

My scattered head is packed

with the leafy detritus of life;

inside the grey loom unceasingly darns

the mind’s fading threads into a wingless

pupation, a dark enclosure

from which my destiny will emerge.

I’m holding my hands together

 hoping it flutters.

by: L. Raymond Andrews

Support Wikipedia!

Senescence

Senescence 

I watched these two kids playing  all through the humid juneday
twisting, shuffling, jolting, just as freshly as yesterday,

 catching their own laughter with mason jars
The purple curtain spilled from crowded clouds

over their hopscotch boxes  and drained the chalk
from the sidewalk, swirled skylight fallen into dusky gutters

I thought about how life has wetly erased the lines
I’d never cross while I stayed up through the adult

night and howled a symphony into an emptied jar:
in the slurred morning, some misbegotten tune.

I wonder if those kids ever wake up
to find their brimming  jars gone sour—

by: L. Raymond Andrews