Rebirth?

A caterpillar's tiny death-
Barters with the Afterlife
For a tiny collection of feathers.
An assemblage, assembled
In fiendish or coquettish lines.
What breaks in trial by fire,
Withstands the test of time.
The endless purity of rebirth,
Is non-existant at best.
One life bleeds into the next:
The black webs of running ink
Pause for examination, sink.
We are nothing but what
We may have been before-
Only with added plumage.
And yet-
Ignorant of our ancient weights, settled,
We trade our thousand tiny deaths
For uncertain, fragile wings.