i wonder if anyone
ever feared the butterfly
receding into its cocoon

walls smooth as silk
closing in,
it sheds its wings
and emerges
a caterpillar once more
a backwards metamorphosis

a butterfly
that no longer craved flight,
overwhelmed by the blue
it sank.

and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

I feel secure in this little cocoon,
Never do I wish to metamorphosis;
I do not wish to take flight.

When I feel confident enough to take a peak,
I wish to sink back into my undamaging, innocent cocoon.
I do not like the idea of a ‘big world’.

Everything is not beautiful enough;
Its not as magnificent and imaginative like I want it to be,
Unlike this innocent and carefree cocoon I have molded my mental image into.

I am longing for some kind of change, but to afraid of the unknown to take it.

I am mentally unstable; I cannot handle the dangerous world,
I am much more safe and stable in this cocoon.
So leave me be in my little shelter,
I know it’s unhealthy you don’t need to remind me.

I’m I truly secure in this cocoon or is it all a fable?

I wish to be pure not mature,
Though sometimes I daydream of being both,
As I sleep away in the sheltered cocoon.

Everything is so frightening.
The outdoors that surround my cocoon are calling me,
But I can’t seem to shake away the worries.

“You’re so unsure of your own path, you never even take a step back,”
My thoughts sing song to me as I lull back to sleep.

I am to petrified of the outdoors of my own cocoon,
I can’t seem to win the battles of thoughts, even if it could save me,
So I stay silent and let it eat away at me never taking the chance.

On the bridge
between waking and sleeping
I met my father's eyes.

So beautiful and dark,
filled with quiet trouble,
and with tender invention.

Here in this nature park
green branches reach out
to one another, embracing
the air and the sky, touching,
sending chills down each other's
bark and trunk, meeting overhead.

You, my youngest brother, have
our father's eyes, and they are eyes
of pain and tenderness, of caring
every day for our beloved, ailing planet.

Above our heads, just now, down at the bottom
of the road to Ely Ford, sycamores carry thousands
of backlit leaves, each a green window into its own reality.

Who could have known that after so many months of silent solitude,
giving up completely on the illusory version of love,
a new beginning to life would begin as clearly and simply
as the moment when a butterfly, shoulders hunched in the final stages
of imprisonment within its sacred cocoon, knows unswervingly that
this is the day to bust loose, to slowly stretch wet, untried wings,
gingerly begin to flex her coloured, powdery, armature:
learning the way trust in truth and goodness
frees one completely.

*And sheets, and sheets of white light wash over me.
Sheets and sheets of white light wash over me.

don't cry,
little me...
youll shed your calloused skin
one day,
hatching out of
your candy-wrapper cocoon
of dreams and ribbon in
red,
      white,
               and pink,  
.
.
.

so
give your jaws a rest,

undo your sewn on smile,
with your
skin collapsing on
your cheekbones and
empty eyeholes,
worn,
tired, and d u s t y
.


you will be fine.

You                                                              ­                                       have
 
  always                                                ­                                          been 
 
    a butterfly;                                                       ­              waiting for
        your day to                                                       break from that
          cocoon. At least                                       cocoons are warm
              and cozy, they                 say.         Cozy, until someone
                walks by, piercing holes,      creating a draft. Though
                    it’s easier to breathe and much clearer to see.
            May it be better to pierce        holes in the cocoon than
           in those completed wings?        Creating more flexibility,
               it is much easier to                     expand, though it
                  raises the risk                          of being shattered                    
                   before those                                 wings have
                         fully                                          matured.

Deep in the night, Inside the cocoon of my blanket,
Like a teen aged kid, I dream of a world,
I dream of this world, Where I am the creator...
I can beckon people, my heart wishes for
I can sing, dance, or live a lie,
Deep in the night, I brought in the rain,
The thunder wild, wind tearing by
We walked our dresses plastered...
Your hands slowly exploring mine...
The tingle brings a warmth inside,
I settled inside the cocoon of my blanket...
Deep in the night, I brought out the Sun,
Dried your hair, combing with my hands,
It was stifling hot, in my part of the world,
The sweat trickled, and I brought in the spring...
With the flowers bloom and the birds charm,
I started to hum the song in your heart,
Deep in the night, you got lost,
Inside the cocoon of my blanket,
I walked miles, tracing your heart,
I brought in the moon to guide my path...
Deep in the night, I realised
I lost my dreams to another heart
Inside the cocoon of another blanket,
The dreams were lived by beautiful hearts...
Deep in the night, Inside the cocoon of my blanket,
Like a teen aged kid, I dreamt of a world
A world where I was left alone to dream,
About the wandered heart and torn blanket...

I call to you in whispers
when I flick off the lights
and turn my blankets into a cocoon.
Maybe you’ll hear me one day.
If not, at least I can say that I wanted to find you
and my hands that brush my lips to pull my blanket towards my face
will tell you the same story –
a night does not go by that I don’t whisper to you.
The shadows expect it of me these days;
they wait to hear me call to you
and artfully etch my words with inkless golden feathers
onto my bedroom walls.

Once a seed so free, now a towering tree
No more than swaying in the young summer’s breeze.
It’s days as a seedling are long, long gone
Now its roots grab nature’s blessing, its leaves sing her song.
But its leaves aren’t just for singing and feeding, no, there’s something else going on.

Among its third highest branch, around quarter til noon,
a beautiful butterfly bursts from its cocoon.
It knows it’s pretty, it appreciates its flying ability
But, despite its wings of beauty and its newfound mobility,
It misses the days of munching on the leaves of the tree so carelessly

As I watch the butterfly drift far out of sight,
Panic sets in when I realize something’s not right.
Once I’d played outdoors for hours, but now no longer in the mood
I looked around frantically until I found that little dude
He whines as he leans against the old tree’s roots… “Daddy, I want food.”