a catalyst in my nosebag
treks into a lung
the atlas of the sponge I inhabit
recognises the chore
but takes the spore in hand
when it should have humiliated it as the enemy
and talks to its information

a new and playful thought is born
a youthful rebel
passed into storage
but be prepared when there's trouble
there's a mutation stirring
and it's not fond of the authority