Where’s the bell toÂ tug–raise the alarmÂ “I’M NOT DEAD”!
Cocooned in a casket of depression, quickly lowering
hopes into the chasm of darkness. . .
Just wait a second more . .
Wait. . .
to stretch wings
and discover I am a born-again butterfly.
Cocooned, your wings
folded into cramped quarters of
Too young–death has touched
ripped your still forming chrysalis
eyes open to the dust
of humanity. So you hide deep within
safety, questioning the wisdom of
God. Why did heÂ mold you to fly in a world
chained by gravity?