After centuries past
and centurions [mere mortals, men who
lost their way and dressed up as commanders
in a childish play], after all of this
they appear now as blips on a flat screen.
Even the story loses its shape, like
the red balloon pin-pricked.

   * * *

And in the end
I am

A butterfly being,
beauty becoming
comfortable with these wings, though torn,
that move me and maybe
change the weather
somewhere for
the better

The dragonfly dancing,
whose brief life of days
shimmers in rising light, newborn
even as darkness falls,
envelops me.
At dusk, rest,
calm, stillness

I am
And I begin.
 

   * * *
 
Fake hero in hiding,
false gods fallen—like metal chess pieces
on a checkerboard plane of existence
replicating patterns of reduction.
We who have risen, who held visions of
love multiplied and all things lifted high,
for freedom freely fly.