I writhe in a blanket cocoon
gorged on time-leaves scarfed down
a milkweed day -
the short time I have to be reborn.
My entire body melts,
and converges into a gel of imaginal cells
and from them, Morpheus forges my imago:
Sleek exoskeleton hammered from hot iron memories
fragile wings blown from fantasy glass,
stained with blood orange warning
A delicate proboscis replaces my jaws,
ready to sip flower wine instead of devouring venom leaves
and now I stir, kicking my six new legs
against the Lethian water which surrounds me
the chrysalis cracks and I spread my wings
Awake, to find I am still a worm.