stages made me

wings sprout from my clavicles;
thoughts soar away from my brain.
    i    can    make    it.
although i creep from beneath floors,
and come from the corners of the house;
    i    am    shaping    hope.
life is a rushing freeway of possibilities,
all crashing and molding into chance.
    i    can    be    better.
grow old and do plenty of shedding,
even if it never amounts in the end.
    i    am    this    life.

Author's Note

edited*