it is bitter in this retreat,
to share a bunker of ones past,
it is not that I am with desperation,
but rather that I feel my wings have been firmly clipped

though, I stay here frightened,
thinking what if I become cocooned and stranded? will I only ever remain stagnant, still?
in an oleifera spinning, a chrysalis left to decay

is this the way that they intended it?
rather to not have my wings attached to me,
but rip them away from the bones in my back so that I cannot fly again?

I do not know if I will ever fly again