Kush and Caterpillars

If all the highways would lead to High Park,

traffic would possibly be headed to higher heights.

In the evening hours,

the crimson-colored rays of the sun

paste and decorate the clouds with awe,

way far, near the horizon.

They say pain cures itself

and there's a magic in us

that can define our limits.

Lost souls seek a new beginning,

almost always.

They seek new paths

and save up for new shoes.

New shoes they can fit in
even if the last ones were better.

The cycle is longest when you have to,

shorter enough when you love to.

The winds know us by name

and the breeze in the trees,

has shared our breaths.

We are like a calm disaster,

that sinks the ship as the Captain sleeps.

We are like the wolves of the night

and we howl the loudest

when the full moon creeps upon us.

We are thorough and lacking at the same time
and the grasses shield us from want.
We know the meadows and
they've caressed our bellies and fed us.
We have climbed the mountains,
alongside the cool trickling waters.
We have quenched our thirsts
whenever we needed to
and we are now ready to conquer the world.
This is the most pain I have felt in a long while.
My head keeps buzzing and the
daylight burns my eyes..
the moonlight is unfriendly and
the mist has tried choking me once.
My insides are crumbling and
my legs are weak, almost falling off.
I postulate that that is what happens
when you are almost becoming
a butterfly.