Neither caterpillar, nor yet Butterfly,
I putter through this long half life
With memories of boughy greens,
Wiggling within my means,
Whispered words with worms below,
‘Waiting one to woo my woe.

These things and more they fill my dreams,
While I enclosed grip bursting seams
And simmer slow insides liquefied,
Simmering, simmering within this mold
Till solid soon I dissolve my hold.

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