second skin

 

 

 

cicada 

what was once whole,
confined to irreplaceable -
an identity honed 
in the fire of tumult

crumbling carapaces of 
incoherent ramblings
rest about, strewn and
cast aside, like refuse

now, like once bronzed
skin, thin sheets cast off.
end of summer molting,
readying itself for winter

gone are days of sun touched,
wind swept, salt encrusted
moments, bare and brazen
into now she saunters