The Butterfly’s Ascension

Once, I was bound to earth,

a prisoner wrapped in silence,

my body a coffin of stillness,

my breath trembling against the walls of change.

The world mocked my frailty,

called me nothing but a crawling shadow,

a husk without destiny.

But deep inside, a fire stirred—

the whisper of wings unborn,

a storm pressed tight in fragile skin,

a promise written in the marrow of my being.

I dissolved in darkness,

surrendered my shape to oblivion,

each cell a battlefield of death and rebirth.

It was agony—

to burn without flame,

to die without grave,

to become without knowing what I would be.

Then came the rupture—

my tomb cracked open,

and light poured in like thunder.

I rose, trembling,

my body sculpted by suffering,

my wings dripping with the colors of storms and sunsets.

I took flight.

Every beat of my wings

was a defiance,

a hymn against despair,

a cry that what breaks me

also exalts me.

I am not the crawling thing they remember.

I am not the husk left behind.

I am sky-born fire,

a fleeting miracle,

fragile yet immortal in my dance.

I carry eternity in my wings,

though time will wither me.

For a moment, I am glory incarnate—

a whisper of divinity passing through mortal eyes.

And when I fall,

the earth will not mourn—

but the air will remember

the thunder of my fragile flight.