The caterpillar slumbers; in it’s cocoon,
dreaming of what it will become soon,
no more will it slither; upon the leaves,
but soaring like an angel; above the trees.
Though when I sleep; in my trusty bed,
such a change can only happen in my head,
thus, with mind-forged wings, I will fly,
to see what others do, with a watchful eye.
But the newly crowned butterfly, ascends,
mocking me, as I continue with my pretence,
with captivating colours, I see it’s art,
it warms up my jealous, but thankful heart.
So, I try to conceptualise, my equivalent,
to make our comparison, seem more relevant,
thus, I tell to it, a Dionysian story,
with me emptying bottles, in heroic glory.
In symposium like discussions, I attest,
to become a most welcome and happy guest,
but the time will come, for me to leave,
as I need to heed; my bio-chemical grief.
Hence, like the caterpillar, I snuggle up,
not smelling of roses, after what I’ve supped,
and when I wake, I am certainly not me,
like you, I transform, dramatically.
However, unlike you, I am not so picturesque,
I’m like Lazarus, a walking talking grotesque,
I don’t fly, but everything is spinning,
as the bathroom, becomes my reason for living.
Where I will created an extrusive desolation,
and come up with, a new day’s resolution,
to not drink, for the next twenty four hours,
as I prepare for my much needed shower.
There you go, my wondrous winged friend,
we are alike after all, to the bitter end,
though our scenes differ, we can converse,
with an understanding of our life’s verse.
Thus, let the butterfly and Lazarus stand,
with their customary discretions upon the land,
where unpleasantness and beauty blends,
to make a world of difference, that comprehends.