She crawled back into her cocoon,

wanting to forget her wish to be a butterfly,

to join her kind, flitting about without care, or pretense,

but the pain of escape had borne heavy on her young wings,

she withered, her wings shriveled for lack of flight,

the cocoon, in which she found comfort,

became her near-deadly embrace.

Her countenance melancholy, she watched

as her brothers and sisters streaked about her,

flashes in the sunlight,

their wings burdened with the same pain,

but bringing joy to others who watched,

not fixated on their own short lives,

only focused on giving

of themselves.


For they had realized what their depressed sister hadn’t;

life is lived in this infinitesimal moment,

every pain and every pleasure,

met with equanimity,

knowing right now is gone,

replaced by another now,

never-ending, the process.

The universe brings them into

and takes them out of existence,

always replaced, never erased,

sometimes understanding

the law of the universe: nothing destroyed,

everything crashing into everything,

and everything only as it should be.


They live short lives, compared to us,

and we live short lives compared to the universe;

yet we imagine our sorrows to be greater,

imagine our long existence doomed to pain and suffering,

not realizing our existence is

as unnecessary as a candle

gazing at the sun.