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
Fire-Side Tales 