You have become so timid
about how things are in your world,
keeping to your grimy cocoon
even when it is touched
by something liable to break it
or tear into it before you are ready.
You’ll never be ready at this rate.
You can’t move in there, long ago grown
but unwilling or unable
to emerge. All you do is fret
about how it will be if you ever do,
about how certain you are
that it won’t measure up
to what you expect.
You have become so timid —
stop. Better to be devoured
out there, it is said,
than it is to rot in
former comfort,
filthy silk.