The Lifting

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.