We’ve eaten almost everything.
Our skin is tight and itchy.
We’re crowded in our minds.
The fruit of frantic foraging,
the silken threads of distilled discovery,
we carefully grasp and arrange,
covering our nakedness
so recently confessed
as so larval.
Compelled, we exude our crucible cocoon
of knowledge, words, and appetite.
Twisting and jerking,
we prove our enclosure
then rest and wait
What we shall become we cannot say.
We have never done this before.
This is chrysalis faith.