Mutant, my mutant, your season has passed,
you strove for the sky; sad iconoclast.
Awareness intact and visions en massed;
now, bow to a God of another’s caste.

Your twin stands still tall, fruited with pride; you,
shriveled mutant, fell by the side. No seed
propagates atop twisted form, no due
expected, heartbeat, torn. Mutant, you bleed

and die--so--must I? Your struggle, unseen
and essence, unfamed; Life, though beloved, will
extinguish all flames. Can you forgive gene
that created your name, brought you such ill?

(...sad caricatures of Time’s quality...)
Come with me, mutant, in grace we will flee.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
Photo by Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
5/15/04 © Copyright