Illustration by Nate Lindell

A child is born, unknown to him,
powerful persons his life have scripted,
like a game of curling,
then brushed his path, hurling
him through alleys
and cold, uncaring, unnurturing,
felt his soul’s chrysalis form:
society’s indifferent scorn
— for him, the norm.

He grew, as many child will,
even those “nurtured” on swill,
and, somehow, survived.

In his adulthood he said,
to those who looked aghast,
when he spread his wings at last,
“I was the butterfly
who you made a moth;
it’s you who raised me
to eat your cloth.”

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Nate A. Lindell

Nate A. Lindell is a writer and artist incarcerated in Wisconsin.