Bombyx mori ~ Thursday, June 26, 2025
Will I ever be able to get out
in a deep hole, unbearable pressure
left alone, left to die, I fell down deep
left to die, all alone without a doubt
I fell down a deep hole, everything falls
even if I retrieve sunken treasure
visions of the sun make me fall asleep
even if this world is a dream, this hole
remains a metaphor, down here, the walls
build up as I sink further down in debt
enter the Mariana Trench, alone
all alone, left to die by myself, bet
butter is sweet, if I were left a bone
left a bone to nibble on, if I stole
enter the depths of hell, lonely, silent
trouble with metaphors, they seem so real
of course, I am pouring milk into milk
given the world, thrown into roles, hell-bent
each day to stay above water, I feel
too much, Bombyx mori, I produce silk
over and done, kicked out, homeless, I spent
underneath overpasses, as to steal
the money back, to die, and thus, to bilk
if I could pay it back, every last cent
no one but myself to pat, to unseal
ancient obligations, not of my ilk
desperate to rise above into the light
exit this madness, regain the future
exactly an illusion but I know
personally, I am capable, might
heaven and earth shift, a fulcrum, to lift
objects and obstacles to find the cure
lift people up, out of this hole, to grow
enlightened, and thus, to exit this rift
in a deep hole, unbearable pressure
left alone, left to die, I fell down deep
left to die, all alone without a doubt
I fell down a deep hole, everything falls
even if I retrieve sunken treasure
visions of the sun make me fall asleep
even if this world is a dream, this hole
remains a metaphor, down here, the walls
build up as I sink further down in debt
enter the Mariana Trench, alone
all alone, left to die by myself, bet
butter is sweet, if I were left a bone
left a bone to nibble on, if I stole
enter the depths of hell, lonely, silent
trouble with metaphors, they seem so real
of course, I am pouring milk into milk
given the world, thrown into roles, hell-bent
each day to stay above water, I feel
too much, Bombyx mori, I produce silk
over and done, kicked out, homeless, I spent
underneath overpasses, as to steal
the money back, to die, and thus, to bilk
if I could pay it back, every last cent
no one but myself to pat, to unseal
ancient obligations, not of my ilk
desperate to rise above into the light
exit this madness, regain the future
exactly an illusion but I know
personally, I am capable, might
heaven and earth shift, a fulcrum, to lift
objects and obstacles to find the cure
lift people up, out of this hole, to grow
enlightened, and thus, to exit this rift
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