The sleeping worm lies awake
For some subtle passion
It givest not the eve of fowl day
Nor grants a lone wolf's passage
To madness
It grieves only for apples insipid
It failed to plunge within
Be them of carnal or innocent stead
It's wrath is but a deed
To happiness
When it cocoons deep, unseen
All are agape, wondering where it's been
Tis' only but the gone, silent hints
Its belly swollen' from love's contempt
For silence...
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