The Monarch


We give birth slowly

To ourselves.

We sleep

Never imaging

Our true grandeur

Until we wake up,

Unencumber ourselves

From our cocoon

And fly.


Usually the flight takes place


Wrapped in the opaque shrouds

Of death.


Humans mourn

And bury their old cocoons.

Because their eyes

Cannot see the flight.


However when mortal eyes

Spy an empty butterfly’s cocoon beneath a leaf

They do not weep

But smile

The transformation

Has occurred.


Why can't we muster

The same sentiment

At the human cocoon in it’s coffin?

Is it because we do not actually believe

The sacred writings we claim to revere?


Rare is he that does not weep.


Even more rare, the beautiful Monarch

Who returns

To show himself

To the unbeliever.


And rarer still the Monarch

He who changes before your very eyes.

That Monarch never tastes death

and transcends all.


Why not nibble yourself free

Right now?