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Indigo caterpillars crawling through an emerald garden(
of wildflowers and weeds and beautiful faerie houses
)and they use their tiny, hard and insignificant legs to propel themselves
through tiny, insignificant atoms
and gain headway as they glide forward, I stare at them
and I am left standing far behind
because my kind of stumbling,
impregnated existence is overpowering whatever momentum was there
to push me through insignificant air.
You asked me what I want,
silver flowers, fire-glowing dew, they know and yet you ask
and yet I know you can't know that it's you,
you're eyes, lips, synapses, nerveselectricvibrating, lips quivering sounds shaking
my foundation. How could you know.
And that's the way it goes.
Indigo caterpillars inch forward and I, stagnant,
erect in my entirety,
am ten shades of emerald.
I was never one for onwards,
but the dew smells sweet,
and the tiny legs tickle.
And there's nothing significant about a blade of grass,
or a garden of wildflowers.
I'll sit pregnant with life before you, if you use me as a grassy knoll,
and come lay with me
when with the world, you become weary.