It is I.

Harried by mosquitoes and savaged by moths,

Encased in beatles, thusly held aloft,

A moonrise amidst demons, a pair of soft socks,

A tulip bloomed at morn, then ravaged by bees,

A frost-addled bud, a swift-running stream,

Do you hear my soft cries, do you lap at my sea?

How could you be?

You cannot, because it’s me

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