MOLT

MOLT

1.

At the threshold of the bug

To molt or remain in this shell of grey.

An earth encased in cloud still shines

But bugs don’t mind the shade.

It leads this way the peeling and the crime

Of thinking this is me and this is mine

This is thee and this is thine.

Eternal rules break down in time.

Do I stay or do I go? The singer sang.

In Auld Lang Syne it didn’t matter.

On New Year’s Day we all grow fatter.

2.

I like to linger

In a place of danger.

Where there is no danger

No love and no anger

There is no song or singer

No one to give you the finger

And no one to finger.