I dwell in a constant space, without change

Where faces begin to act as one.

Where words without thought crawl forth

And where the mighty sun stands without change.

My form longs for a new bud of color in a grey world.

A simple flower to give me hope of change.

I live where men strive to paint colors, but with black ink.

Where new is a replica of itself

And where a new start is an old beginning.

Why do men cringe at change?

It rejuvenates like light in an abyss.

Without it we progress like men chained in prison cells.

Change is the butterfly from the caterpillar,

The life from death,

And love from hate.

I now know that where I dwell needs change.

A place where the fall gives way to winter

Where a day of new begins.

Though most men approach change with shaking hands,

It is needed to form the butterfly.

For what this simple soul craves,

Is the melting of this wax statue,

And the artist to shape anew.