Self-bondage, pulled tight yet the worm-wrought wires weave a garment of seclusion, never quite immobilizing the larva.
Oh, how the maggot desires isolation, paralyzation, oblivion, yet the anxiety-strands it weaves, wend whimsically, leaving the grub dangling to hope and fear.
What if this is it? The purpose is no more than a trap. Actualization is for the brilliant philosopher, not for the worm. Waxed wings ascended the wight, however briefly beyond his mortal cage but the larva lurches a line, hanging hope over a chasm of festering fear.
Much is at stake, for innocent beings became ensnared in the worm's honey-sinews, hypnotized, swaying outside the womb or is it a tomb? The cliche image only heightens the terror.
Something deep down; unexpected happens. Despite the machinations of the grub, just as the cocoon seals and conceals, just as hope snaps its lifeline and the maggot ceases its struggle, a twinkle, a spark of the universe, a magical muse transforms the worm.
But what if worm is malformed? Will there be sublime pneumatic elation or a plummeting scream into the abyss?
The form emerges. Up or Down?