Updated: Nov 3, 2020
There is a rigid tugging.
The metamorphis must arise,
Soon we must emerge, ennobled,
Out the swaddling of our homes.
Liberation awaits us
So ends unending chrysalis
With bated breath, turning, turning
And so. We press out our binds
Surely to unfurl bold wings?
Gaudy, bejewelled, dazzling growths of
All we have done, all we have built.
The wise pearls, gift of solitude?
This cocoon seems ossified.
Veins around cracking, hardening, roots.
The womb, our coffin, a carapace
Of our own making. Entombed.