March of a Molt
Came the small, sorry centipede
Slithering across the earth that day,
A bittersweet dance beneath his feet.
Scurrying along in a desperate sway
Hurrying so that he could pray
To the garden of the walkway.
The centipede rose with caution
Up he rose his little head
To the weeds and seeds to plead
The tiny centipede to the big garden said:
"O, great garden, I'm a creature that all dread,
Let me cast away these legs and be any else instead."
The garden considered her words, then spoke:
"O, little bug, I hear your cries
But would you kill for just one more thrill?
Your troubles would rest beneath your eyes,
When the stars go dark, you will look to the fireflies,
And you'll love as do the butterflies."
So, the unlovely creature began his work.
He worked with rhythm in his molts
A thousand hands and legs bled in wonderful threads
The centipede danced through his painful waltz.
His flesh was ripped away with all his faults.
The body was cast away as he ceased his assaults.
When his old body was gone
The creature did not understand;
His mind stayed entwined with a lingering bind
He had killed and buried himself with a surplus of hands.
He had created and destroyed as the garden had command.
Yet how could others come to understand?
The garden spoke once more:
"Such a shame that they still turn away, dear
But you will move so free without legs to decree
Now, you will explore a new frontier:
A path always near and never clear
Still, it is not my place to interfere."
And so, the creature began his steps.
O, little bug, loved only by uncertainty.
The mirror reveals what time never heals
Your lust to be you is always so hungry.
If it means you will be somebody
Let yourself be ugly in this eternity.