Freeze-framed, flash-frozen, shrivelled before your time;
Frost has won the battle, but the war is in your mind.
Stunted mite, measly runt, bud in haggard role;
Life has robbed your freshest bloom, but cannot eat your soul.
She woke up one day to find
she wasn’t even a has-been.
She was a not-yet,
a fetal position bud,
a still-born dream,
an unnamed embryo.
While others unfurled,
pupal confinement in whisper-case,
hers was a thought not conceived,
an alphabet disjointed
whose words could not contain flesh.
When the womb of her existence
was held up in placental mirror,
when she saw,
and denial was torn from wretched unformed fingers,
her pain became a labour of love,
speeding her through the birth canal,
fiery ring of the Phoenix.
With vernix and blood
scrubbed from her infancy,
with umbilical apron strings
her lungs found their Voice –
and how she wailed!
Lusty newborn cries
wrenched her chrysalis open
and she ,
on newly minted butterfly wings,