Unfurling

A cosmic metamorphosis of fractured beings seeking flight amidst crumbling foundations.

We hover beneath clockwork celestial gears—
half-born chrysalides, trembling
in the crawl space between
gravity’s grip and the grammar
of flight.

The pavement hums static hymns,
each crack a map of where
we almost bloomed.

(Don’t look down:
the earth is just a rumor here,
a punchline the stars forgot to finish.)

A thousand bottles shatter in slow arcs—
glass becoming liquid constellations.
We named this falling,
but it’s really the sky
learning to kneel.

Somewhere, a wingless thing hums.
Its body: a failed alchemy
of dust and daylight.
The air tastes of copper,
of endings that forgot
to end.

But wait—
feel the scaffold shiver:
cells conspire in quiet riot,
turning our static
into second chances.

One day, these knuckles
will split into feathers.
One day, the fall itself
will catch us—not as bugs,
but as buoys in the bloodstream
of something that remembers
our true names.

Until then, we orbit the almost,
jars of fireflies strapped to our ribs,
palms pressed to the pulse
of not-yet
but-might-still-be.

(Even cracks hold stardust.
Even silence, pressed to light,
becomes a psalm.)