What is a truthful lie?

I left the caterpillar inside the woven home
Nobody knows that the silk is a soft and enticing little tomb.

We rest in the hope that through death we rise anew
But there is no life. A self-destruction of creation,
A long wait for a non-existent perfection.
As for me, I was not born to fly and to die all the same 
Our metamorphosis was completed when we were created

As for today, it is spring and and summer in the middle of May
And the dew is freshest and new when it is cold, 
I will hold her tight until I’m grey and old