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shamamama Apr 28
One drop of Dragon's breath
Stirs sleeper from dreamtime,

She wakes from the womb of creation
Where shadows dance into form
And reflections live in the past

Bound from silken fibers,
This ancient changeling,
Slowly creeps from cocoon.

Perching on branch
Impulses of flight and
A longing for air and nector
Breathe life into capillaries
And Rivulets newly knit.

Unfurling shape in patient sunlight,
Wings born of a great sleep
Reach into the light,
Waiting for droplets of life
To pulse in her being
Unveiling an opportunity
To fledge.

Where does her life begin and end?
She lives like a drop of water in a cloud.
Changing form from river to ocean
Evaporating to rise and fall
As snowflake on frozen pond

Where does beginning begin?
She  perches on tree of life
As sap flows life into her veins
Like a tree she waits.

Once Caterpiller
Once in darkness
Now life as Milkweed angel.
Butterflies are a beautiful mystery to me.  My latest understanding is when they go through metamorphosis, they literally turn into liquid to reform.This has me in awe!
Brian Carson May 2016
(I imagine)
I am a moth circling around
the same beautiful flower
that a hungry lemur found
I land on the petals
entranced by the sweet smell of the nectar
and the comfort of the weather
I hear the snap of a twig
and every time I have heard that sound
I cease to exist
then a cloud appears and I begin again
my heart is in the right place
but I am not sure where that is

from my childhood
I recall seeing a cocoon
and that strange memory
makes me think of you
I can not explain the feeling of
watching something about to bloom
all the while hoping it will fly home to sooth
a paranoia that my life has seemed to have proved true
I try with all my strength to hold it
but through my fingers it always seems to slip through

I will just turn away and head on back home
I am tired and that road is just too long
to walk with these poorly healed broken bones
I seem to be better at being alone
but I seen that rainbow
I swear I did
appear in front of us
but we did not know
that we will always be kids
and it is just a myth to be grown
Cné Aug 2017
As our dew points match, lead me out into the open moonlight
Then take my hand and come with me to share this glorious night

Sin smiling Angels look down on us in the night's cocoon
Safely sheltered beneath his broad shoulders our bodies completely attune

Her pale skin denied The moonbeams as I eclipses them above her
Shivering to the cadence of the night with the moonlight as a ******

The cool night air hasn't chilled her warm summer lips
The stars reflected in our eyes, each shimmering thoughts a kiss

Ethereal night mist rises from our slowly moving bodies
His warmth tastes of golden light, dancing to simple melodies

Shimmering in dusk's glow the rapture subsides in a glistening shudder
Splendorous waves of euphoric flood, as we complete each other as lovers
to the tune of AC/DC "Touch Too Much"
thank you Palmer for the dance
https://hellopoetry.com/palmer/
Bruce Demos Sep 3
One two one two melatonin pieces will do
In my warm cocoon
A bumbling butterfly
Stumbling through the night
In search of warm dreams
Can't find them anywhere
No matter how hard I try to fall fast asleep
Cné Oct 2015
Why
Why do you love the one you do?
Arrogant as he lives
Intriguing minds have not a clue.
He cheats, he lies and receives your endless forgives

Security he cannot propose
Financially, spiritually, emotional or otherwise.
Love unfaithfully he bestows
Disguised as Christian he justifies.

Smothered in the cocoon of his limited sphere,
Hinders flight for the beautiful butterfly,
Egotistically the coward oozes insincere.
Sadly pondering, inquiring minds ask Why?
Love is blind
sofie Jan 11
pretty girl,
beware,
the boys are out to get you
they'll take away your flower
they want what's only yours

pretty girl,
blossom slowly,
stay in your cocoon for now
for summer can only last so long
and soon it will be over
Cné Dec 2017
~
O Painter
with thy own eye
                        would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
            and blemishes true

Load thy brush
                      with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
                  bethought, in deep

With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
                  and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
               of deep forest green

O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
       and the indigo moon.

Paint me as i standeth,
       prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might

Paint me in the optimistic
                             silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
                              of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal

O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
                            in a rainy drizzle

Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken

Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
         with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon

O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
                               in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
             of a quite quaint butterfly

Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
                to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.

Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******

Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;

Study mine own dry sorrow
                              in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.

O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print

Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too

~
When I paint, I’m never quite satisfied as I see all my mistakes, blemishes and colors not quite right. I tend to keep painting to try and get it all right. At some point, I arrive with the conclusion, if I keep going I’m going to mess it up. I stand across the room and, it’s then that I’m amazed at what I have created. I like to think that I’m seen in the same way by my creator.
Brandon Conway Nov 2018
Silky cocoon of routine leaves
this metamorphosis stagnating
how the discomfort thieves
the fear of change isolating

The struggle lies in the escape
with no energy left to attempt
monotonous days left to drape
as if life holds me in contempt

Hanging on this lonely branch
sometimes I pray just to fall
monotonous routine's avalanche 
creates days so banal

And then a child finds the lonely silk
plucks carefully into a glass jar
Oh how the curiosity of their ilk
creates this warm inner spar

A want to escape
a need to taste 
freedom's luscious grapes
make haste happiness, 
make haste.
Azaria Feb 14
a permanent feeling
of your flesh
enveloping me
your contact
the catalyst
in my pupal stage
i love you like the
essence of sunlight
and water
peeking through
the small cracks
tending to
my shortcomings
like temporary faults
the weight of your
presence resonating
like a cocoon
evolving from
your awakened warmth
and subtle creation
Ceyhun Mahi May 2017
White gauzy smoke is blown through the lily,
Floating on air,
Fondling leaves and dewdrops who're glittery,
A view so rare.

On a picture elegance is enjoyed,
A Polaroid,
Presented in a silver-gallery,
Who's gloomy ne'er.

With gauzy threads from a silky cocoon,
White as the moon,
Lily-hands craft blooming embroidery,
With flowers there.

Like gossamers this elegance's tender,
Lit and slender,
Shining at the afternoon silvery,
Which does not flare.

O Mâhî, this form is a web of rhymes,
Who slowly chimes,
With threads we're finally stitching poetry,
Crafted with care.
A 'Mustezat', a modified version of the Gazel or Ghazal adding two shorter lines to the couplets.
amme Jul 12
The memories of you is stuck like a gut feeling
I cannot trust myself.
New butterflies that slips out of my cocoon
gets digested by a tapeworm.
Cindra Carr Oct 2010
The darkness is a cradle.
The blankness is a cocoon of nothingness.
Being lost here is a relief.
Nothing hurts here.
The last lingering taste of blood fades.
The phantom breeze clears the burnt smell.
Lost thoughts drift away.
Lost memories skip just out of reach.
I am lost.
The dreams of fire and blood blink out.
The darkness is a cradle.
Nothing hurts here.
I am lost.

cc2010
Anika Abith Jan 2018
Sometimes I do wonder,

Didn't the butterfly ever feel like
hiding in the cocoon again?
I found a butterfly with its wings broken, unable to fly....
I.
And my hair became too much

It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks

By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair  
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair

II.
everything and everyone became consumed.


III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa

IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.


V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa

VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.  

everything becomes consumed.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
I was lost in my resistance to the happiness of life,
Living in my small cocoon of safe,
Taking my emotion from the love on the waves
Until you came and woke me to be free.

Too great to imagine I’d almost missed the ring
Brass turned gold glinting in my eye,
I can see now truly for the first time in my life
Without the shroud of black that blinding me.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
zumee Aug 2018
Field of sun-flowers overhead:
The sparkling yellow grains
bursting out
from the stamens

A wind rises
The call to pollinate

I tuck myself
into a sheet-cocoon
fly upwards
out of the chrysalis.
Samir Koosah Aug 2018
Lost inside my thoughts at night, silence is muted by the noise of my own mind. A deafening
silence.
Life and death, so fragile, such short moments. Why do we live by them? Time itself is
defined by life and death. By the rise and fall of the sun everyday.
How to define this I am going through right now? I don't feel alive nor dead. Time does not
seem to exist here and now, as the entire known world to me.
Like a caterpillar, trapped inside a cocoon, morphing myself to a butterfly, unaware of the
changes on the outside, of the perils awaiting for her on the outside as she gets out in the
search of the prettiest flowers on the path that leads to her partner, having to guess what
way to go.
Will I emerge as a butterfly or as a moth? Can one choose? Defined by genetics, sure. But
that does not apply here. Self awareness and focus are probably the defining factors in this
case. And if so, I shall emerge out of my cocoon as a beautiful Monarch, to cross the globe
after my soulmate, in a difficult but rewarding journey. Facing all forces of nature to find her,
and to finally be with her to the end of my short existence.
I don't want to leave this capsule as a moth, to hide in the shades and wonder through the
night. I want to emerge as one of her kind, a beautifully delicately coloured butterfly glowing
and reflecting every ray of sunlight that finds her delicate silklike wings.
To Monicah, thanks for all the support and love you've showed, they were and have been crucial in my life. Thanks for convincing me to share my writings.
I picked grey for the sheets
to cocoon our tangles
and black for the curtains
to block out the light
after sleepless skin bliss
in the morning we'd drift
merging aural wires
where flesh cannot press
unified on a fraction
of new foam mattress
dew lattice charted upon
have breakfast in bed
then get up and eat
giggling over tea steams
poured in black and red
Japanese porcelain cups
I found at the thrift shop
with cherry blossoms
fired on their insides
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