Psyche

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,

flesh liquefies

skin flows

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.