Prison for an Egg

Within the nexus
Of a ball of yarn,
Hopelessly knotted,
With both ends
buried in the center,
There is a tiny egg:
A splinter of life
Pulsing outwards
But misdirected
Within the labyrinthine cocoon.
Never reaching daylight,
It lays there:
Perfection contained without,
While the imperfect power within
Stutters, stagnates, stops
Petrifies.
A wondrous treasure,
A gift at night,
Orphaned by day,
A worthlessly expensive candle.
Either way, nothing more
Than a messy, tangled
Mass of string
With a prize inside.