I have lived in a cocoon;
In comfort,in oblivion,
As still as forgotten carrion,
Like a moth that doesn't see the moon.
I've emerged from my sleep;
My wings fine and feathered,
Not bound nor tethered,
No boundary too fickle or steep.
Now how I shimmer;
My back cleaving from the strain,
Of intrepid flights made in disdain,
My memory; the hope of yesterday's glimmer.
P.S. - A Lousy attempt at being Sylvia Plath