The Wings That Never Were

Just beneath the sun 

Dwelled a splendid silkworm, one 

Whose cocoon was almost— 

“No, no. That’s not right!” 

He exclaimed at the sight of a silken starlit starship 

One which paled to the image he’d envisioned 

In his mind. 

“The symmetry is off. 

The pattern is not consistent! This is not a cocoon 

That can take a worm to heaven.” 

The next cocoon 

 Was shaped, Symmetrical and Engraved 

With gilded silks and baubles to reflect  

Heaven’s pearly... 

“This has gone to hell!”  

Exclaimed the worm, fretting once again. 

“It's not the proper shade!” 

Weaving, weaving, wove  

That undertaker of perfection, whose cocoons 

Were hewn and strewn: 

From high above  

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To far below 

One day, a moth flew by and found a mound 

Of rotten silks atop of which 

Sat an aged, ancient 

Worm. 

Now he saw this endless weaving, that free and childishly wise 

Moth, 

And so, he illustrated, 

“The cocoon is not the wing! 

“In flight, your trappings are forgotten.”