Poetry: my butterfly

Thirty-one million

five hundred and thirty-six thousand

 

 

Breathe.

It only takes a second.

Before you know it, another has passed.

You can make the next one.

 

Breathe.

 

A butterfly floats in the breeze.

Her world is full of colour and light-

the peace of the clouds and the sun

where birdsong is sweet and it serenades

bright flowers as they dance.

She has had her share of pain

but she has transformed-

now she lives in tranquillity.

But when she looks down,

to a world left behind,

the things that butterfly must see.

I wonder what she is thinking?

With silent beauty, she flies over this chaotic garden.

She sees birds bickering in the early hours

and cats killing mice, just for fun

She sees bees falling down at their own self defence

and trees cut down in cold blood

She sees flowers violently choked by thorns

or withering slowly away

But amongst it all-

a rose

that has learned to live with its thorns.

She rests her wings on velvet red.

 

I wonder if that makes her happy.

I wonder if I am making her proud.

 

Breathe.

 

A fleeting moment.

How many have passed now?

Thirty-one million seconds and counting.

You can make the next one.

 

 

BM, Thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand, 15/11/18

 

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