Presence I

This feeling is familiar but rusty
With misuse, it comes groaning
From its corner, polishing its pieces,
Preparing for a slow burnishing.

I can feel its gleam emerging,
Sloughing-off the rough grit-
Encrusted layers, begins to
Breathe, take shape, shedding

Skin like a room being opened,
Like light pouring in.  If it
Succeeds in flying free and clear
Yet unaware, it could be

Blue and green butterfly manoeuverings
Reaching for the core, the heart's
Tracts, the mind's ore, it could be
Heavy metal falling through the floor.

It has to find what it is in 
Emergence this thing groaning
Rusty from its cornering.  It could
Fly or sink with its own presence.
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