each lazy and hazy morning
I see, with blinking sandy eyes
too long a sorry time’s been spent
in slumber’s strange cocoon
encased within this wooly secret
there has been no metamorphosis.
Instead, I am imbued with an insistent tune.
A siren song surreal.
Mayhap it is uplifting, or a disturbance unwelcome.
Like the bit of grit inside the oyster’s shell,
it is a provocation.
Will there be a singular pearl?
Not now, but one day.
I make a small incision.
I part the fluffy case.
The Day obscures my vision.
‘Tis full upon my face.
The melody still lingers.
Its weaving lasts the morn’.
This phantom choir of singers.
This afterlife unborn.
Each night, the pod will form again,
the butterfly awaiting.
Or will it be the final pearl
for those whose hope’s abating?