In youthful idealism
I once wrote about the Fall,
owning its change as my own.
My time of transformation,
my butterfly moment.
The time to release that which was dying in a breathtaking array of defiance.
Fooled by the overwhelming and euphoric, but fleeting, burst of beauty.
The vibrant orange, yellow, and red;
Being nothing more than a swan song.
The final words before death.
After many more falls
I’ve learned that the enchanting draw of change so magnificent in its scale
Is tempting but only temporary;
Luring you toward the cold bare bones of a barren life;
Rendered to skeletal silhouettes of the grey winter skies.
Shadows of former life that reveal the truth behind the tempestuous beauty of that change.
In its time, once you are able to grasp its beauty,
it only crumbles into nothingness in your hands
– Jennifer Stewart
Ysmael Campos 