Lady of Shalott where art thou?

So many words I want to say, so many things I want to do
Inside my cocoon, unopened pupa, fragile and brittle,
A touch of frost, a wave of heat, a drop of dew,
excuses,
unripe, uncertain, meandering,
when does the butterly finally spread its wings?

Yet clichés all work and fail,
the whale and the aeroplane,
Why should they all be meant to mean
the life, the signs, the plasticine,
childish and true, our fears oppressive,
our burden both cumbersome and necessary,
the meaning, the night, the flight,
oh dear, what if we were right?