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.