What if I never be metamorphosed,
or, the aesthetic soul quits appreciating epiphany;
the lost key remains locked inside the bosom
of the wounded phoenix?

Time flies; does fly.
I should learn to hear the trumpet
turned on somewhere at a slimy corner
in my heart/mind/brain.

The lone urge I mutter,
Not to convince Him/Her/Them;
Oh yes! I do murmur to convince Them/Him/Her quite often.
Still, I do mumble, something…something else.