Transitional reality of words

Mulberry silk is most fair and divine —
For that, sight- and sound-starved minds carry an axe;
An axe to the branch: call one’s chrysalis “mine” —
Shoulder-straps or a tamed star on their backs.

Once peeled back — all the layers, a bejewelled cocoon
Is but watery lumen — hollowed out, drained.
An orchestrally grand cloud, promising — gone by noon,
Too full of itself to have duly rained.

With a faux royal air and a substance like chalk
Language spills, drooling out of the dissected thing.
Now, what worth is the silkworm, the once-thorough talk,
That all power lies only in most tightly wound string?

Rightly so is this engine firmly fused in earth’s crust,
Though the cycling of time never ceases to feed
This machina without Hand of God it due trust —
Nothing other than Death its sharp force does defeat.

The word “me” has too much a notorious tone,
Though this speech has by far no less ego a-birthed,
For the wordy lust intrudes just about every bone
Of this museum of skeleton statues unearthed.

“I” is haughty, impregnated with its own sound,
Yet less uniform substance it cohesively bears
And as all speeches do, leastways those most profound,
Conceals more than what little it proudly declares.

Unstrung from the branch, stolen off from their dome,
Each possessively muttered, sweet word falls apart:
As a sparrow, once gone, shall forever leave home
Each one’s own solar system plays but a limited part.

As the fallout of shells the horizon entombs
And deters from exploring an inquisitive stare;
One must know to pick only a living cocoon,
For the dead he will find disappointingly bare.