The Biomimic

I’m on my phone a little less these days,

And another garbage bag of clothes has found home in the back of my car.

Sometimes I glance in the rear-view mirror and wonder if it has taken

The same shape as what, in my future, is cradled in a padded car seat.

And sometimes I have kept things to myself, because

Language could only drop the painting half-done.

My brush could form no proper portrait nor prose.

And so only the flecks of life in my eyes can speak for me.

I try to wrap my arms around my chest

Like the moss on the shady side of a tree,

But I also host the bonfire which reaches

Curious fingers between my ribs

To poke at that lazy comfort.

I want to rule my world someday, if I could.

So I mustn’t be still for too long

Lest the moss begin to grow again