Metamorphic

It starts like that:

a strangely touching, heavy-breath intuition of tightness

a tense stretching over edges and surface, in angles

something supple rubs against something dry and rigid

like a childs' finger on oak bark

like a childs' mind on the course of instruction

like a childs' soul on confinement to the room

Then there is a movement

gruff first, like agarophobia

then rhythmic in singleness of purpose

a first hairline crack, like in parchment

an audible cracking and bursting

like the splitting of seams

and clefts diverge

something that became too small breaks open

falls off in frazzles

Finally

finally again

and forth gushes tender bright flesh

fresh soft skin

pale, sensitive and vulnerable

perceptive up to the last new cell

ready for starlight and sun-warmth

to slowly dry and mature

into a new discerning protecting shell

You don't need that old skin anymore

but do not just leave it behind on the side of the path

pick up the frazzles and give them a place

in your wardrobe

old clothes bear the stories of the past

even if they don't fit anymore

they stay an important requisite

til the last act in the screenplay