hopelessly turning for lack of a shackle
hopelessly churning in need of a bridal

ride forth , they must
awake they lie,
studying the twinkling sky
forever returning-
what will happen if I cry out
into the dark blue slumber?

hopelessly yearning
for metamorphosis they pray
a maggot into a butterfly
miracles at bay

unfurling banners
birth horns of gold
moldy plums,
They bake in the sun

awaiting their fate
never again to see what’s scripted in slate