The dimming light of fallen grace
that squints past the years like
mercurial atoms darting away from the
chaos it defends, mortal foliage strips aside
this squalid year in gracious splendor, sovereignty
sways the cocoon, tucked in tightly woven silk,
justified in glorious quiescence, soon to spring from
an abode with more evolutionary cognizance than
any primitive being could imagine, yet
will never embrace the Monarch that borne the fragile
nativity, alone and deserted, lifts to the sunlight, wings
frail as rice paper, aloft to the clouds, and such an odd
muse, fluttering from flower to flower like some silent
symphony swaying, this pilgrimage of survival that
nature provides dominates this ethereal doting insect,
majestic yet this condescension into condemnation
merely represents the brevity of how short nature
proselytes everything into noble acuity
and fateful vacuity.
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