Transience

Transience, that unruly cop, walks tall with the big stick out. “Move it, derelict!” he screams. “I got no time for your idle protests!”

Transience, that impossible flower, grows where the weeds wallow, so florid and prickly, so sweet and tricky. It rises and meets its own ruin.

Transience, that lost virtuoso, plays the dusty harmonium in the temple of the temporal. Eerie tones touch the pillars. Great birds gather in open, oblong windows.

Transience, that irate pyromaniac, burns down all the houses, pours whiskey on the ashes, pisses all over the trash.

Transience, that paranormal seductress, spreads her legs for astral sailors. After the act is done, and their muddled desires have been sated, she gleefully devours their bones.

Transience, that open book, closes when the chapter folds in upon itself and acknowledges the imminent end.

Transience, that closed book, opens its hidden pages.

Transience, that cocoon, awaits the monarch flight.