i am mush, in a pouch, hiding from the rain

could it be that it is just the hidden pain in growth that keeps me from seeing
we are to be marvelous in end

or do the caterpillars in cocoons feel pain
as their bodies dissolve
and live on conscious
with nothing but their stored energy
and their miraculous, thinking minds

stewing with memories of their youth
gaily, living in their past
before they decide to climb to their future

i have been well too acquainted with my shell
or chrysalis, or prison
i forget why i am here
and where i am
but i know
i put myself here

it is to grow
but is it for good?
am i a moth, or a butterfly
i often wonder
in reprise, i distract myself
i'll be eaten by birds anyways, if that is any consolation

will my wings spell out a name
or someone's initials
or a skull with empty eyes
will i be orange, with red
or white, with nothing
will i be blue

i don't think i will enjoy my emergence
i don't know if my fellow caterpillars will
i know that i didn't enjoy my metamorphosis

i only know that i have enjoyed my past
and i was in excitement making my shell
we do not enjoy our future
it is not certain if we will enjoy making it

but i do hope, when time comes
i'll have a fellow winged friend to circle around with
and i do hope, then in our hard-earned freedom
we enjoy the flowers we previously couldn't reach

i know, in time
i will face the rain once more

i hope, do hope
that it will be in confidence
knowing i am among them
in the sky