Butterfly or Moth
Rarely does Nature give so many choices as it gives us humans. What will we choose?
Curtains ripped apart,
A harsh and unforgiving light
Is cast, and we —
Roused from somnolent insouciance —
Do we tuck and roll
Our sleepy, caterpillar selves,
To burrow deep,
And deeper yet, seek sleep?
Or, casting cocoons aside,
Stretch fragile, nascent wings —
Becoming things — emerge —
To face the awful freedom
Of a choice: To live, to fly,
To wonder in the sunlit why —
Or beat ourselves (and others)
Against the darkening glass,
Those things that might have been, become
Pale shadows darting, to and fro,
Till sucked into the guttering flame.