We are all silkworms
of one kind or the other.

Either we boil in our cocoons,
leaving fine thread to be unwound
from a lifeless soup –

to be made into a stocking,
or a scarf, or a dressing gown,
worn with pride
by one indifferent
to the murders that birthed it – 

or we last long enough
to burst out,
abandon tattered rags
fit only for stuffing,

vlex furred wings,
and wobble boldly
through the night air
in search of a flame.