Fully grown and curled up
His back arches
He moves gracefully, clumsily
Less than dancing
More than moving

Butterflies land on the knobs of his spine
Birds drink nectar from his lips

He is inhuman
Almost spiritual
Almost profane

A heavenly being
He is made for destruction
Beauty without a purpose
Turned beastly

The butterflies fold onto his skin like
paintings
One daintily on each vertebrae

The birds drop dead
Feathers molt

Smile on his lips
so sweet its sickly

From his blood births animals
From his nails bloom plants
From his mouth crawls monarchs

He is nature in its purest form
He destroys and creates
and inhales everything all at once

His chest is heavy
Born to be a martyr
He carries the world on his shoulders

He is the god of death and creation
all he wears is his own skin
And owes one nothing

Unearthly

He makes kings
He makes queens
From his lungs birth
dictators
tyrants
presidents
and future rulers

He can create a world with one thought
Destroy it in a mere second.

He is powerless to his own urges
He can end anyone’s suffering but his own
So he suffers to create more war

His pain is the anguish of the world
His joy the hope of the universe

He is made of constellations
The fabric of his skin is a universe

You can call him a devil or a god
Worship him
or
Damn him
It won’t change a thing

His beauty is beastly
His life is death
His salvation is our nation

We can lose ourselves in his world
Or create our own

He lives to suffer
Dies to feel joy

He will swallow the sun
Drink the moon
Soak up the seas
and break the mold

He is the monsoon
that sweeps you off your feet

He is
The tides, wind, moon, sky,stars
And
The Sun
shining everlasting

He is the seasons in their entirety,
He is the butterfly on your shoulder
Fragile and dangerous
Don’t let him break

He is no one but himself
All he will be
All he can be

I am him
He is me