Change is beautiful and frightening, like the Siberian tiger of the
Amur region in the Far East rushing and leaping across the
Waste land,

Strangely familiar and unknown, like the double approaching and
speaking to you in a fluid dream sequence, merging and melting
with the phantasmagoric landscape,

Consuming and destructive, like Count Dracula in the perpetual
night of mist and feral darkness biting and drinking the blood of
his victims,

Expansive and creative, like an invisible sphere of luminosity
exploding into a mammoth ball of fire,

Terrifying and thrilling too, like flat lining and dying and
mysteriously coming back to life,

Change is beautiful and frightening and new.

Change is grotesque like Gregor Samsa’s metamorphosis into a
colossal insect and yet, it is tomorrow’s golden sunrise, when
crepuscular beings rise gloriously at dawn,

observed on the Brooklyn Bridge by travelers trekking across
the majestic expanse or others sitting on the Promenade in
Brooklyn Heights

or strangers at Mallory Square in Key West celebrating an
enchanting sunset by the Gulf of Mexico,

Change is grotesque and grand, beautiful and frightening and new.

Janus-faced, it wears the multicolored and colorless masks of
hope and despair, a container partially filled with blinding
white light, yellow and purple, red and gold,
and gray and black.

Change is grotesque and grand, beautiful and frightening and
new; it is Janus-faced too and yet,
it is being and becoming,

and without it,
there is no life.