The butterfly struggled

Within its pupa.

She writhed, agonising to express,

Alternated, with hopes

Of freedom.

She was, unconscious

All the time,

Of externalities,

Of how the world could change,

How it might also

Close in,

Upon her.

She writhed within her shell

Metamorphosing slowly

Her shape, her colours, her mind –

Dreaming of the flight

She would take

Like Icarus’ father

Or Joyce’s Daedalus

One day, imminently.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s