We rage—struggle like caterpillars,
seemingly in vain, apparently aimless
but even in the mundane mess made
beauty spills out, iridescent brilliance
burning with desire to go higher,
our wings kissing the sky with color
as we dance wildly through the wind
and glory in the careful chaos of a world
that billows chance and sweeps us up,
far beyond the limits of the finite
grasp of our inherent possibilities
until we reach for the sun itself.
But like Icarus the fool we blaze bright,
the sun’s kind caress killing us softly
and we silently fall in showers of ash,
blanketing the verdant green below
with a covering of grey failure
and consuming life in somber depression.
Slowly the wind dances through us,
swirling our eager, restless thoughts
till when we are ready we rise, caterpillar
again struggling at bottom of the totem
but now more dedicated to the ascent.
Ripping our cocoon to shreds
we blaze forth, even more beautiful,
into the brave new world, no longer afraid
for we are butterfly no more
but a phoenix in flight, untethered
and beyond the fear of death.
Beyond even the fear of failure itself.