The delicate lace of the wayward angel’s broad shawl,

Engulfing her tender form in a chasm of sheer light,

Voile, Satin, Chiffon, and Batiste,

Winding in rows, threads like ball dancers, ‘twining and spiralling.

The silkworm rests lifeless in the mulberry tree,

His passing was for the sake of beauty,

Her graceful decor crafted from his life’s work,

But the capricious spring breeze catches her organza cloak,

Billowing it upwards- ripping it from her back,

Twisting into the light turquoise sky.

Twisting Into nothing.

The silkworm laughs as does the divine;

For nothing beautiful can ever last.