all the more metamorphosis.

when I close my eyes I do see words.
once there was a duck
and this duck
was not an ugly ducklin
she was just a duck
like all the other ducks
there were people swan like in the way they would hurdle motion
swaying
tread upon the ground
decaying
all but glimmers of beauty
it was a duck
no one mocked a duck
stood to grow laughter
it war ordinary
to have the gray, trivial qualities
of a lump sump duck
this duck in the realms of solitude
plucked at her feathers
in search
of swanlike wings beneath her
clutterd flesh.
but now
now featherless and mutilated
not finding any swan underneath
she was too much of a cesspool of sorrow
to even be
the mundanety
of a duck.