The butterfly is incapable
Of seeing her own beauty.
Knows only the sensation,
Not mechanics
Of flying.
But does she think of herself
As the creature she was
Before metamorphosis took its course?
Or does she flaunt the success
Of her transformation?
Is she aware of the envious eyes
That track each extension of her wings?

For who among us does not spite her?
The incompetent worm that exceeded expectation
The uncouth underdog that became
Nature’s most acclaimed opus.
Who among us does not long to be her,
To emerge from our isolated cocoon
No longer a shapeless mass
But the crumpled depiction of beauty
To find the tears we had so bitterly shed
Were merely raindrops
That helped us grow.