Shed

Moving slowly as if from a dream, crawling out from underneath the weight of heavy skin.  Like flakes of dried snow, the outside begins to peel away to reveal something else.
New flesh soft and clear is revealed so young and uncertain, it stays awhile longer under old, cemented crust watching, waiting to make a move into new.

Though for awhile there was nothing but tearing.  A ripping apart of old skin by some giant outside claw, coming in without an invitation, searching for something unseen and destroying everything in sight.

So many old familiar things torn into dead.  Leaving in it's wake, a cold and frightened shell asking why? Gone are those that felt like fixtures and reliable old landmarks.

Stolen from someone who may have needed them, badly.  These layers have been taken away painfully to reveal something.  What that is, remains uncertain.
In the mean time, the question stays silent in the air...why?

Why were so many things pulled out from the hands that held onto what looked like long wooden sticks to stay upright with, creatures of faith and love that have now become dust.

Why must the process of letting go be so elusive and mean? I'm sure there is some beautiful story in the answer but in the mean time, anger boils into acid and shards of distrust form ready, to be used.

©4/2013DanyaMosgofian

New Skin

Can a snake choose what kind of skin it wears? Can it morph into an entirely different set of scales and a new pattern if it so chooses?
Grow different appendages so that it can move in different ways?

I'm ready to be something else.
I have lived in this skin for far too long and it no longer feels comfortable, maybe it never did but I figured I had no choice but to continue slithering around the way I had. 

Thinking maybe, I don't have to.  Maybe there is a way to change forms, become another something and grow into different.
There must be as land is melted into earth, birds walk to take flight and snow forms from thin air.  There must be a way to change the very essence of being so that what lies on the outside is as true as what lives on the inside.

©4/2013DanyaMosgofian

Obsolescence

As the pattern on a ceramic dish wears away, the cracks in the body begin to show.   Lines that define the age of a piece are revealed to show it's true wear and tear, beyond the pretty curls and designs that previously distracted the eye.  Edges become worn, jagged that if not careful are sure to cut those that handle this dish too clumsily, without regard.

It begins to become unused and is only kept around for sentimental value, seldom brought out for show except on rare occasions during a moment of aching nostalgia.  Then it is held with love and gentleness as it is fondled and turned about by someone who misses a time long ago, no longer possible.  Till then, it sits high above the rest of the other ware, separated from the oft-used utilitarian dishes and instead, left alone because it no longer has the solidity to hold itself together.  It is considered weak and quaint and therefore abandoned in the daily chores of living.  

Someday when I have space, when I have the right things aligned I will have two sets of dishes.  One set will be perfect and exquisitely beautiful, so that no one will ever want to use them, except on rare special elaborate functions.  The other set, will be a hodge-podge of sad neglected old dishes that no longer were wanted by anyone else and sat lonely on shelves to collect skin and time.  These dishes will be used until the cracks widen, chips of plate will fall off into my food so I have to stop and look at what I'm eating more carefully.  The color will fade and require me to look deeper into them when someone asks me what shade they are.  I will have forgotten the name of who made them and make up a name to fit the smudged remnants of writing on the back, creating fantastic tales of the dishes journey.  

I will drink from mason jars and old cans, wiping my mouth with old shirts.  I will then clean the dishes with soft cotton socks that we wore as children, so they know what it's like to be tended to again.  

And when they fall apart, into the sea of dishwater I will take those new dishes off the walls from display, and start all over so that someday my glorious new trinkets will become old again and remind someone else that everything always has a place, no matter how worn and jagged it becomes.  

©4/8/13DanyaMosgofian

Dry Season

I can see changes in the sky this day.
Clouds form strange lines that look like they are dancing sideways away, or towards something.
A silence crawls over me, like new skin forming.
Except this time it's covered in fur and scales. Readying itself for some kind of rage coming from the sky.

Despite the threat of this torrent, for some time now it's been dry all around and inside me, if I'm honest.
Perhaps it's better that the rain has been gone long enough for things to dry out, for smells to disperse,  for things not better contained to escape.
This way my back can dry out. The skin can heal and close.
With time to shore up loose ends, my bones can grow stronger, fusing themselves together in fortitude for the next storm.

I crawl out onto a warm rock and sprawl my body across it like a dying animal.  Basking in the frightening heat of a future summer storm yet to come, my sinew softens and I melt into stone.
The thought occurs that I could stay here forever, seduced by the heat of the earth, warmed by the fire in the sky, telling me I am whole again.

Until a reason grows otherwise, I will stay here as long as I need to dry out.

©2/2013DanyaMosgofian