The Moon turning slowly
Over like a sunny-side
Up Breakfast, is just a
Phase.
Green hair receding
Back til wilted and
Cut with dead ends
In their coffins
As the head rotates
Once again, is just a
Phase.
Muddied shoes and
Rockstar hair and
Music that pierces
Ears til bloody,
Earwax protecting, is
Just a
Phase.
Picking and scratching
As the weight piles
Down but he
Still reaches for
The Future
He lays
Down because he
Thinks he is finished, it
Is just a
Phase.
Nearby a ladder
Hides in the grass
And he picks it
Up for it will make
His reach taller
And he relinquishes
That surrender previous
To start a new Phase.
He climbs and climbs
And stumbles, and
Loses footing, but
His feet make contact
With a plastic shelf
And he leans forward
To point and grab,
Then turns away
When inches cannot close
In. Maybe, it is
Just a
Phase.
Inches of air
Separate like
Lilypads floating,
So he leaps
Taking hold of
An imaginary
Foothold that
Seems stable.
And he stays
and struggles,
Body trembling;
He looks down
And up, and
Never down again.
It is not a
Phase. His mind
Is fixed, in
Focus like a
Camera. Never
Again will it be
Just a
Phase.
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