Answer:
What is put on a table, cut, but never eaten?
My first is an insect; my second is a border; my whole puts the face in a tuneful disorder.
What flies without wings? What passes all things? What mends all sorrow? What brings the morrow?
What is that you will break everytime you name it?
I turn around once. What is out will not get in. I turn around again. What is in will not get out.
I'm the source of all emotion but I'm caged in a white prison.