You could go, worm Into the pupae Wind yourself in Vomited silks Hide yourself from The more stable ilk To dislocate yourself within Turn from a fattened wriggly thing Into slender body and made up wings Powder puff the pattern Onto papery canvas Dots and dashes Hearts and slashes: Paint yourself a pleaséd pink, Rich purples fit for Queen or King, Bloody battlefield crimson that sings, Papal whites and temple lights Flutter inside that transforming tomb Pulsating like the virgin's womb. You could go, worm Into the pupae Instead of slithering on your middle Eyes fixed upon multiple screens Distracted by mundanities. You are Nero's white fiddle: Played in the hands of a Barbarian as Rome around burns And this world starts a viciously Twisted turn towards the darkness Of a renewed night. Are you going to stall or pick up The thread and go back in to fight? You could be a butterfly But choose to be a slug You could choose to fly In the slipstream But choose the snake's Deathly stalling hug! You could be transformed From this to that From hiss to bat From earthbound to heavenly From sliding to gliding But instead you sit within Four walls from that all-seeing eye Affrighted, slighted....hiding.