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Snug as a bug in a rug
in a room as big as a barn
where exhilarating ideas
bounce from the rafters
to land dormant
in a mind steeped in Winter,

Must we wait for Spring
to produce wings of transformation
to queen, worker or drone?

Here, packed like sardines in a can,
ideas reproduce
like sponge,
Cells of inspiration
are discharged
and swim about
until they come to rest,
to flourish

or to die from lack of vision,
as if ocelli
are the only means of sight,

Here, snug as a bug in a rug,
or a caterpillar spinning silken web
to attach itself in pupal stage
to any firm support,

This room, as big as a barn, is our chrysalis,
Where we huddle and wait for metamorphosis.

 

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