Crooked, it aches. Slowly, it buds behind The dozens. The sun glazes the outer branches, Attracting foreseen attention. Hidden away, Under the shadow of others, It blooms. One by one, Most of the flowers fall, But not you. Ever so bright, You glisten among the branches.
Patterned elegance of orange, yellow, and white hang beneath the sky. A former life, renewed as a crustacean butterfly, dancing to the currents of the wind.
Ever so vigilant, it watches. Patches of light, a life dodges. Unable to answer, curiosity plunges. “Why are we here?”, the question lunges. Silence—just silence.
Escape between the lines. A curl of the pen, an inked feeling hides. Flirting with imagination, piece by piece, no hesitation. Finished and riddled with mistakes, you pause. “Was that right?” Lost in question
Steadfast, yet still. Silently strong but secretively suffering. Society smiles, so I smile. Scratching at my sins, they stay. Should I? I shan’t… So, Still scared… Still silently strong but no longer suffering.
Tocking of ticks, the mouse clicks. So many words to fix. Seconds per word, hours for ideas, keyboard is raw with too many inquiries to miss.