Moth Eaten

When yer favourite clothes

 Are found to be moth eaten
... in solidarity They

 Are merely exacting their revenge

 Upon our love of silk,

Our clever hands which

Boil caterpillars alive
In their sac of dreams ...

Having said that, I, too, love silk,

Love the idea of my fingers feeling

 That exquisite stretch
Of the cocoon upon the
Frame, and,

The idea of the dreams

That may come

 As i sleep

Wrapped In layers

 And layers and

 More layers

 Of pure raw silk

While it snows outside ... do i

 Love it enough to become

 The harvested grub?

For how many lifetimes?

Is freedom defined by that

Karmic moment that you, weary soul,

Are surprised by the

 Advent of functional wings

Somewhere in the catacombs of forever?