it exists,
without context,
in isolation
it thrives.
We of this place
carry our own cocoons
in rain and dry spells alike
to pull over
every while in a once
the day of purging
is disastrous,
disembodied, bits of cocoons
floating, mid sentence
helter skelter,
chaos is restored after a spell of peace...
but unfortunately,
the spirit,
hates dislocation.
it stays,
in isolation,
in those very lawns and gates
while the outer
spiritless
drags through days
of inconsequential routine. Homeless.
Never to be
the spirited cocoon
that it once was.
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