Cocooned

Halt; wait until my hollowed shell rips open; then you may see what lurks within I.

When will my hefty

cocoon, which has

so long whirled,

twisted, twirled

with gloom, shake

loose the husk rounding

me, binding me,

squeezing me as I loom

over a highland edge?

When will my hollow

silk split open and be

light as the noose

grasping my throat

hanging from a

crumbling autumn

leaf's ledge?

~

I hope that day comes

soon; for I find myself

scolding my ribs for

not having opened

outwards so that the

strangled butterfly may

finally spread its wings

and fly: relieved from

the wrangled pain of

having been trapped

within me.

Author's Note

Photo courtesy of Wagner at Deviant Art.

Reviews

[~]

This is wonderful. I love the wording, especially: "scolding my ribs for not having opened"...powerful stuff! I also appreciate that it is almost shaped like a cocoon. There is something to be said to realizing our body is just a casing for our spirit. At one point or another, we all need to break free, and spread our wings. Very nicely done.

[Tai Ryens]

For having spotted my past intention for the poem, which was to mold it into the shape of a cocoon, I congratulate you. Unfortunately, I was rather lazy to reword the poem to fit the shape, so I sort of left it as it was. Thanks for reading.

[~]

Ha! Well, perhaps I had a mental flash of the past effort? Geez, it is my intuitive nature, forgive me :) It still looks like a cocoon to me. You are welcome.