Inaction's an Option

I wish they were
ever.

Cycling,
piped water,
volts via wires,
veins of blood,
the very galaxy, vacuum-sealed,
motion/information within a thing
not escaping.

Were a worm to turn its' silk to shield its' flesh while it changed its' ilk and afterwards, a moth emerged, with silent strokes of delicate wings it flew 'til its' white spans were tore by a boy who happened by, so crippled, feeling flying as a pain, the ripped fool felt it should have left its' shell a man, it would harmonize.

Though (a flow / a force) trans the thing, the thing does not trans.