A Compass paces in a chameleon depth,
deep in a struggling cocoon,
where its North is mercurial,
and its fixation evolving in each flash.
Reborn in each coordinate,
it lacks a magnetic field.

The needle twists and heaves,
astray by its own stunted growth.

The Compass is yet lost, curious,
Why so gloomy, Butterfly?

Wasn’t this cocoon your obsession?

The metamorphosis not your muse?

Are these wings no longer your imperium?

The safety of the chrysalis is overdue.
But for now,
the Compass continues to pace,
waiting for a bloom,
for the flap of the wings,
for the red needle to magnetize its North.