So what if the sky
won't let you walk away
with a patch of the blue sky.
Catch that slip through
the fingers close by
'a pair of butterflies'.
It does a matter whether
you say there is or there is none
truth is a piece of heaven is on earth!

Weirdly wonderful caterpillars,
liquefy, transform, and reborn;
Wonderfully beautiful butterflies,
Who taught you how to do that?

Mother Nature, the mother of gaps;
Magical hand hides ignorance,
Misdirects from real question:
Why do we even ask at all?

Curiosity satiated we move on,
Forgetting blindness unremoved.
For if sighted, a new tongue to learn,
Mother Nature, the new alphabet.

Crawling. I've been crawling. Down in the dirt on my abdomen. Searching for a tree to cling to. To hang from upside down. To take a step into the chrysalis. To be born a new.
This skin I wear, encases me. When I've moulted I will be free. I will escape the confounds of bone and flesh. Of time and space. Of birth and death.
When I pass. When I pass through this knot. The knot in the infinite line of things. I will pass through biology, enter into a state beyond. Beyond our senses. Beyond our limitations. With nothing to gravitate towards.
The butterfly, it calls to me. My day is coming, it will be free.
It's been inside of me. Been here all along. Waiting to come out.
I am not the skin I wear. I am not the title I bear. I am, I am!
We're all larva. We all got butterflies inside of us. Come and crawl with me. Get down on your abdomen. We're gonna find a tree. To hang from, and set the butterfly free.

A long, frustrating time

will never last long.

Uplifting, swirling wings

will soon make you strong.



Time may had let you down

when you thought all was doomed.

Your body done and restless

locked in a cocoon.



You will soar and discover

the highest of blue skies.

You will conquer, you will grow

and you will rise.

Emptiness
echoes but does not return
the same lifeless message.
Only the stillness of the room reflects
such dreary gasps for color
and that still desire of the moth
longing to surpass its dull greys
for the wings of a fluttering butterfly
in its glory days.

and i will grow roses on my windowsill hoping you follow the butterflies back to me...//