Rewriting your own stuff is an odd experience: looking at a poem you considered the pinnacle of achievement, that absolutely did not need to be edited at the time, before realising what a doofus you were about a year ago. It is a sobering experience, understanding what has come to pass, normally via the pain and stress of failure.
I’m about to do the same thing with two more pieces I wrote in February: how will they fare? Am I again going to be chastened by my own inability to do the work? Or, will this form yet another bone of the important evolutionary skeleton, an inevitable part of each neophyte poet’s life?
You don’t care, here’s the poem. You can compare it with the original here.
Transition Two
Essence shudders, stops:
suddenly too much; how did
simplicity die?
Moving across space,
transition: often easy
except, this time, fails.
Considered options
concertina: shrinking, show
tiniest failure.
Sudden implosion,
comprehension dead: shattered
pointless planning, gone.
The dust, settling:
inevitable failure
fate, out of your hands.
The Internet of Words 
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