The Metamorphosing and the Moirai
Does the caterpilling Painted Lady
engorged as if by ponderous thoughts
ever tap together her antennae in entreaty
to Clotho for exuviation
from the spinning thread of uncertainty
as the last running stitch sews
her into a chrysalid mystery?
My scattered head is packed
with the leafy detritus of life;
inside the grey loom unceasingly darns
the mind’s fading threads into a wingless
pupation, a dark enclosure
from which my destiny will emerge.
I’m holding my hands together
hoping it flutters.
by: L. Raymond Andrews
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