-hours fly by as the tall Grey mound sinks further into its indent in the ground
-futile attempts chipping away at the stone-hard surface
-led to scores of scratches lining its base
-which bore semblance to the fresh scars on wrinkled skin
-sore fingers strain to straighten the rough mound
-they climb, nails scraping the gritty texture
-desperately searching for an opening
-amidst the mountain of grey, a glint of colour rings through the eyes
-in excitement, the fingers rise, raw
-beaded with blood, perspiring in anticipation
-and strikes. A crunch, with splinters
-the mound cleanly breaks, brittle as a sigh thoroughly pent up with tension.
-the grey crumbles
-the colour flies
-rise
Sense of Willpower:
climbs the mountain (chrysalis), which symbolises the self.
We have been encased in pupation for too long, (and we fear that we will emerge too old, too late.)
our chrysalis grows tall as a hill so immense, you could swear it stretches despite its nature.
We climb our ever-growing chrysalis, devoid of colour, day by day, desperate to find an indication of a time when we will mature and burst into wing.
years stretch by, but our chrysalis lies stone cold, stone gray, stone smooth.
and the day comes when we climb the chrysalis for the last time, trudging through the indented ruts made from our daily trips uphill.
we sit atop the grey mound and watch the shadows lengthen.
we won't return to where we came from this time
the minutes of the rays from the setting sun leaves a glow on chrysalis, silent.
the chill begins to set in but the grey mound is warm. a crack sounds, clean, a surge of wind and. majesty emerges. out came glittering wings wet with evening dew, reflecting the lights of a thousand stars.
we are speechless. long enough for the wings to open. gossamer strands of strength unfurling hardening in the air.
we do not return to where we came from. atop the empty hill, we rest.
and cling onto great wings. we fly.
(when death comes, your true potential will be released)
Comments
Post a Comment