As We Metamorphose
Being mistook, we fed the fire—
not just the book, but index too.
We toasted doubt on tongues of lyre,
then let the ashes write what’s true.
Being mistook, we knelt to clocks
and worshipped time like temple glass.
The hours cracked—we laughed like rocks—
immortal fools who let life pass.
Being mistook, we drank the rules
from chipped old mugs marked “DO” and “DON’T.”
The tea was bitter, brewed by ghouls—
we sipped, then said: perhaps we won’t.
Being mistook, we wrote in clouds—
words shape-shifted, twisted, flew.
We caught the wind, defied the crowds,
and found a sky we never knew.
Being mistook, we danced on glass,
each step a crack, a spark, a thrill.
We didn’t mind that shards might pass—
we learned to dance beyond the still.
Being mistook, we built a bridge
from silence, salt, and sudden light.
We walked it sideways, past the ridge,
to somewhere else, but just as bright.
Being mistook, we lost our keys
inside a pocket full of holes.
We laughed until the locks gave breeze—
and found the door was just our souls.
Being mistook, we dropped our masks,
like stones into a silent lake.
We heard the ripples—questions, asks—
and learned to give instead of take.
Being mistook, we dropped the script,
and let the wildness flood the view.
We danced on edges, tightly gripped,
embracing all we thought untrue.
In chaos found, a flame that slipped—
a poem shaped by me and you.
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