A poem about forests, flying and other stuff

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Chrysalis The crystal ball stopped working long ago. No hope nor future can you foresee now. The leafy path seems futile and so slow. No light nor passion will these woods allow. Surrounded so by life, yet heart is empty - infested as you are while life slips by with worries and responsibilities aplenty. These woods provide a place for you to fly. You leap into the air with some abandon, from high atop the tree and toward the ground. Is this an act of faith, or whim so random? When souls fall in the forest, do they make a sound? In your youth, you crawled and climbed so slowly. Now, with wings, you soar and flutter high. Is this metamorphosis or something holy? What becomes of crystal balls after you die?