I was once a butterfly,
born in reverse.
My velvet wings
a burning orange and yellow
with two white eyes
surrounded by black circles,
on a constant leaden lookout
for thoughts dull and pragmatic;
what the grown-ups called “growing up”.

Then I went into a slimy cocoon,
slipped right in with a slush,
as if someone had sucked me in.
But who? Why? How?
Maybe my ghost had grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me in;
my ghost from a past life.
Maybe it was me, from this life;
or maybe it was the universe,
unraveling its massive web of entropy.

My cocoon wasn’t white and light,
made up of wispy strands of air;
it was black and heavy,
full of molten lead.
I couldn’t breathe or see
or speak or think or move.
All I could do was hope,
and even that I wouldn’t do;
defiant and stubborn and stupid.

When I emerged out of it,
my prison, my armor, my bunker,
(How long had it been?)
I was a slimy creature,
mutated by my slimy heart.
A grimy caterpillar from the deepest darks of my soul;
I slithered and crawled
and dragged myself forward
inch by inch by inch.

I never thought I’d ever get out,
but here I am now.
The slime has washed away,
by the rain that fell thick and heavy
at first, then light and gentle,
for days and nights forty.
I do dare hope, the ever fool,
of sprouting my wings again
and taking to the sky.