How often have we yearned of being,
Swept off your feet and cradled?
It rises at the thought of escape and easy perfection
How badly have I strived and begged for Transformation
But all I’ve gotten are sour drips of my own salivation.
All along the liquid you foolishly call Elixir, is but a mirror
The Law of Conservation prove me differently
I can see my reflection.
But I cannot submit to the the death of Transformation handed by a tiny glass bottle
Wouldn’t that be foolish? Let me take a sip and see enough to convince me of reckless abandon.
The paradox, the tug of war, the duality of gulping down: potions or poison?
Potions or Poison?
But chilly, wrinkled fingertips wipe off my tears.
The witch, she says to me, in foreign wisdom:
“Thou seeks thyself in helpless self-woven mazes,