The Belly of a Cocoon

The vikings had ships, the American Indians had horses and astronauts have rockets, our life long task has been to get to the NEXT POINT. Death is a form of public transportation-taking the soul to the NEXT POINT. What I've written paints a picture of the process and softens it's scrowl.

Life has escaped my grasp yet I'm still here and I breath
This tight basement space which smothers and suffocates
feels like one conceived.
I've found no suns or no moons or winds that kiss the rain,
only large blocks of black in heaping stacks
which keeps my flesh attained.
Silence is shattered briefly by my hearts -thumpity,thumpity,thump whisper
& thoughts have begun to pressurize behind my eyes and sting like blisters.
My many failed attempts are now INTIMIDATING IRON WALL OF FEAR,
& I question; Why am I even HERE like a captured deer awaiting my tIME of DEATH?
I asked GOD if you are who you say you are COME NOW and collect the heat of my breath.
There was never an answer to my mental cancer, & just as I prepared to give it all a rest-THERE WAS VIGOROUS MOVEMENT ALL AROUND ME WHICH CAUSED MY PRISON WALLS TO PRESS, I COULD FEEL WARM AIR BRUSH PAST THE RESIDUE THAT GLAZED THE LENGTH OF MY SKIN, THEM STOUT MORTARED PRISON WALLS BECAME AGED AND PAPER THIN,
NATURES FINGER ASSISTED AND BOUTS OF MY HYSTERIA PERSISTED THUS THE MOMENTUM OF THE TWO CAUSED MY CAGE TO SWAY,
THEN I AROSE WITH A BRAND NEW POSE, MY SPIRITMAN WAS ALL EXPOSED AND I WAS WEARING THE FINEST CLOTHES.............& as a BEAUTIFUL Brazillian Monarch Butterfly, I flew away.

Learn more about this author, Richetta Henry.
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