Wingborn - Pupa
I found myself adrift in my own cognisance,
carried by currents of whim,
forming in the liquid soup of my nature.
I tried holding onto who I had been,
but she was no longer there—
she had dissolved away.
I felt my fingers fade, unable to grasp.
My elbows bent into themselves,
arms curling inward like forgotten branches.
My chest, once a vault for hopes and fears,
released itself around me.
The cocoon stretched to accept the flux.
In the hush of the cocoon I breathe,
shifting in the dark where no one sees.
All I was is falling from me—
something new begins to rise.
Rippling through the flux of nature’s design,
carrying truth through a world built on lies.
Born where the old self quietly dies—
no one suspects the butterfly.
And I rise, I rise from the quiet inside,
shaking off the remnants of a life denied.
In the light, in the dark, I find my design—
becoming what I was meant to find.
All that remained was my intent.
My purpose.
My being reorganized itself around this intention,
cells gathering like constellations
remembering their ancient pattern.
I felt form taking shape in the liquid.
Outside, Nyx and Psyche watched,
sunlight illuminating the shell
like an x-ray of becoming.
They witnessed as wings tore out
from my newly formed back—
not in pain, but in release,
free of the burden of the past.
In the hush of the cocoon I breathe,
shifting in the dark where no one sees.
All I was is falling from me—
something new begins to rise.
Rippling through the flux of nature’s design,
carrying truth through a world built on lies.
Born where the old self quietly dies—
no one suspects the butterfly.
I used those wings to tear an opening
in the cocoon’s softened wall
and peeled myself into the world.
I fluttered—first a stuttering flight—
landing on trinkets from another life:
picture frames, lamps with elaborate shades,
small relics of a self now shed.
I reached for the window
and escaped the basement apartment,
the cocoon of winter and waiting.
Nyx holds out her hand, a cradle of night,
Psyche brings a bloom full of trembling light.
They whisper the truth only darkness can teach—
becoming is a language only silence can speak.
I take what they offer, I open, I rise—
reborn in the shadow of their ancient eyes.
Rippling through the flux of nature’s design,
carrying truth through a world built on lies.
Born where the old self quietly dies—
no one suspects the butterfly.
And I rise…
from the quiet inside…
into the strange…
into the sky.
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