Metamorphosis

All that I thought I knew is nothing of what I knew yesterday.
What was hidden underneath is unjustly silent in the presence of time.
The caterpillar in the infancy of its cycle,
Nestles promptly underneath the comfort of a leaf
to awaken upon the break of sunset
and burn narrow across the horizon of day.
Why greet what sits in the mind stationary and utterly blind?
Why greet the illusion of grandeur and pomp and typed circumstance?
At the presence of this is a swinging door. Why am I?
Why am I at home behind this warm, sullen place?
Where the offspring rest and fret in safety.
I dream of the fall of my birth.
What is not in me, but the escape of metamorphosis, in fretted illusion
and the juncture of life. It is all quite well deserved.
In the seers, we see ourselves.
What guilt rests upon unworthy fulfillment.
A glutton seated on his thrown.
The metamorphosis of protection, the road minus its views,
In view of nothing that belongs to me.
It will all end in oblivion. The ultra of me. The ultra of we.
Will join among us for what we have ignored.
The new day will bring forth what is silent,
And uncover what wishes to rise.
The moth from its cocoon, the ant from its passage and its sleep,
The lonely hearts from their solitary confinement and ache.
Break where the sunset may rise!
The horizon is not narrow next to the ground of its stones.
Adventures are above the principals of time and thoroughfare released in angst.
It is no longer a mystery of what rests in the dark,
But a lesson of the glory of our hearts held onto by way of dreams,
Of what is known in only not knowing.
The perpetuating truth that lives simply in the questions we ask.
This is the new day. I knew it yesterday.

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