My melody has changed.
I am no longer just a few pages. I am an entire book, though as yet unfinished. I am deserving of being a whole story.
I am no longer just a clod of dirt. I am a tree, rising from the dirt to hold up the sky, later. Later when I'm older, wiser.
I won't always be the same. I can be different.
I am a potato plant.
I am the cloak of evening sunset.
I am a sprig of yarrow.
I am a red currant bush.
I am a solitary hawk above a craggy mountain.
I am a biolumnescent eel.
I am a cactus in the desert.
I am a thin, worn-out rag.
I am a raspberry, green and tart.
I am a scratched CD.
I am a glass of vinegar.
I am an idea that comes right before sleep.
I am the shadow of a white cloud.
I am simply me, and I've found that my melody has changed.
But I am me, whether I'm different or the same.
I am me. I am me. I am-