The poet, a butterfly

The poet, a butterfly

 

The butterfly is burdened

By first and foremost its name

Its lithe body bearing that lame

“Flying butter’’! It’s bewildered!

 

When mocked, the poet creates

Towers of Babel scratching the slates

Of the dark-blue hefty Heavens above

Its urge to spring free it cannot solve:

 

It’s compelled to flap

Its wings shiny with arcane dust

Over flowers sipping the lusty sap

Yellow and warm like a baked crust!

 

If you ever touch this creature

Pointing your finger at nature

It will fly away, to never return

Ruthless human, what did you earn?

 

The powder on your skin from the aerial

Grey and sticky, you’ll dispose of

You can’t write with this material

The veil the insect was so in need of…

 

Let it be overwhelmed with its gift

This hydromel from the skies high

You cannot grasp all the gist

Of those who breathe and ache to fly!

 

March 30, 2016

Lyon 2 University

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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