It’s not a matter

of shedding,  of sluffing off 

what no longer fits,

though that, indeed, may take place.

It’s more like watching

yourself  be slowly dissolved 

with no assurance 

 there will be anything left. 

  Though you may hope for

  a metamorphosis, what 

 if at the end there’s

 only a puddle and no

wings and no bright soaring self?

                                                                                             JDG