How often have we yearned of being,

Swept off your feet and cradled?

My blood,

It rises at the thought of escape and easy perfection

How badly have I strived and begged for Transformation

But all I’ve gotten are sour drips of my own salivation.

Desperate Salivation.

All along the liquid you foolishly call Elixir, is but a mirror

The Law of Conservation prove me differently

Yes,

I’ll admit,

I can see my reflection.

But I cannot submit to the the death of Transformation handed by a tiny glass bottle

Wouldn’t that be foolish? Let me take a sip and see enough to convince me of reckless abandon.

The paradox, the tug of war, the duality of gulping down: potions or poison?

Potions or Poison?

But chilly, wrinkled fingertips wipe off my tears.

The witch, she says to me, in foreign wisdom:

“Thou seeks thyself in helpless self-woven mazes,

not Elixir”