Caterpillar

Where is the way?
The spirit,
mislaid, whipped, tangled, beguiled,
clear at the start, smooth sailing,
leading well to some reverie of purpose.
Waving, wading through all the ciphers,
pointers to early rebuff, trivial disquiet.
My cross is not known. The middle
looks like an end, or a whole new start.
My beginnings bump into early dead ends.
The bedroom walls of this air-conditioned
home refuse me a cocooned corner,
and the vacuum cleaner may act tough!
If I fail to die normally, would you still
write me a nice tribute, words such as
a plump caterpillar’s posh journey
in absence of any green rest shed,
onto some very well-tiled destination?
About the paint on the invisible flutter
beneath those loathsome bristles of hair?
About that alteration in protracted waits,
about the extended resolve, if I fail in that too!