~ “He Not Busy Being Born Is Busy Dying” ~

~ “He Not Busy Being Born Is Busy Dying” ~

As I stand now among the trees
And let the roots entwine me
I shed my leaves of regret
And yearn to be born again.

Still here, despite my many mistakes
And tales of self-destruction
The present moment stirs
With the seeds of possibility
Where I wish to let my wretched parts die
And see the buds burst from my crooked branches.

Once more, I surrender to this wilderness
Hoping something wonderful
Can finally be discovered within.

Maybe it’s mere illusion
The desire to become something I cannot
But I must believe in this nature
Before I accept the unremarkability
Of my known existence.

Doesn’t the caterpillar crawl before it can fly?
Doesn’t the bird squawk before it can sing?

If we are to die, let us find our truest shape
And go to the grave knowing
We weren’t just broken things
But things that could have,
And should have always had,
Bloomed.