Tell me the tale of
a chrysalis cracked early,
and how high fluid will soar
when tongues flap
a manic rhythm.

Call me a field of
mechanical hum.
The garden of madness
eating its own bloom.
cnd I think privilege
feels like the absence of bone
pressed against a throat,
or the tulips a storm
can't crook, and the air
that loiters despite us.

c swarm of monarchs
rise in a king's gut.
How much gold will
he shed to float today
and gain a bug's eye view
of the lopsided cage he's built?