To the dorsal tube's call,
For the connection to another one,
That will answer it all.
It lives through its stages, like we all do,
Survival on its mind,
Making sense where no real thought is required,
Until a new kind of problem it finds,
The type that threatens all its done so far,
As a poor replacement,
To the width that it could have spread its wings,
If it knew what life meant,
If it had loved,
The way butterflies can,
When they discover the unknown fifth stage,
Which we naively cherish as human.
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