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Winter butterflies
My butterflies fly to the glass
Trying to break through and melt in the spark;
Drawing on windows flowers and grass,
Clinging their soul to the whispering dark.
Waiting outside, on the step of my door;
Asking for fire, asking for light;
Slipping through cracks and kissing the floor;
Turning in tears, losing the white.
So silly I see them willing to die.
Just for a moment of sparkling light
They sacrifice the limitless sky,
Leaving the safe, though moldering night.
Giving their life for a moment of fame,
Wishing to be rather helpless than bleak;
Melting their life in the hands of the flame
Dead butterflies turn in tears on my cheek.
This is the kind of inspired impatience I applaud a truly memorable style of writing.
My butterflies fly to the glass
Trying to break through and melt in the spark;
Drawing on windows flowers and grass,
Clinging their soul to the whispering dark.
Waiting outside, on the step of my door;
Asking for fire, asking for light;
Slipping through cracks and kissing the floor;
Turning in tears, losing the white.
And poetry is ultimately a style. All the work included here at your poetry page is uniformly impressive.
You have style!
Peace
Dylan
"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"
Dylan Eliot