Attractively alone sat an abandoned young lad,
He existed with charm though inside he was sad,
For behind the skin, lain a bruised soul and old hate,
It was a strong façade he merely acquired to alleviate,
The once innocent void blindly lacked passion and care,
And now was obsessed by a solo game of truth or dare,
One which plagued him, with a life of a drastic imbalance,
One that to the normal eye, was normal at first glance,
It ran long and it ran him dry, to continue running back and forth,
He seamlessly hid that he had forgotten what his very life was worth,
Then one fine summer’s day along came a social little butterfly,
From up above the heaven and down from the breezy sky,
She selflessly observed his allure as she softly fluttered by,
He didn’t know life’s beauty, which in turn made her cry,
She came down a bit closer, only drawn by her heart,
No fear or realization that the hate in his life could take part,
Then so gracefully fearless, she naively landed upon his hand,
And from that moment on, her life was in high demand,
Helplessly love struck and instantly thrown into a violent rotation,
She was naturally defiant, which led to a hopeless manifestation,
The slow demise of her pure innocence soon became her fate,
A fate unforeseen that she could no longer hide nor self-alleviate,
She was kept in his dusty pocket to solemnly wither away,
Only to be brought out into the world when he wanted to play,
He loved her flawless beauty and so he concealed her away from sight,
Smothered in displaced protection and selfish love, she yearned for flight,
Then one day while at play, with her stolen heart and a caged soul,
With her cherished remembrance of her freedom as a whole,
To escape she fluttered and fluttered and gave it every valiant try,
Only to realize, her once delicate wings were now too heavy to fly,
He found amusement in her attempted struggles to break away,
Snickering sarcastically, as he dusted her off and locked her away,
Not caring to have, nor fitting into, such heavy wings and tattered dress,
Once again downhearted, she slowly sunk back into her slow regress,
With time she grew ever so cold and felt ever more old,
For all the faded tales of her beauty had already been told,
Forced to relive the battle within, a never ending fight,
“Shall I sleep this night, or attempt to take flight?”
Oh, this is just wonderful! Your story of this butterfly, and how she remains trapped, and keeps trying over and over again to get away to fly in beauty,....... only to remain trapped in the end.You weave a tale of love, with sorrow and tragedy, but that which we may take and compare the fantasy of it to our real world!
You have indeed told a most eloquent story!!
Sheila
Honestly if you had turned this into a book I'd read it whole heartily. The way it's written the pain it tells and sorrow it holds are all so relate-able. The flow is nice and easy to read a true master piece in the making.
This is a very well penned poem! The story it tells is beautifully sad, yet realistic. I personally liked how the poem started looking at him, giving us a chance to see how he sees the world, before turning and seeing the sweet views through her. Very well done!
ok i think its amazing poem, imagery and story is brilliant
i also like the final question ... shall i sleep this night or attempt to take flight
thats a great touch
if i had one small small critique, it would be with the rhyming, it does seem forced at times, but then again i think its really really hard not to make an aabb or abab not sound that way. again, a beautiful job with this poem and i thought you did an incredible job :)
Wonderful. Just wonderful. I almost can't believe you managed to keep up with rhyming words while creatively telling a story. I honestly love this poem. You have an elegant way of looking at things in different perspective. I also love the fact that its very essence can be paralleled in real life scenarios.
"A bruised Soul and old Hate..." God! Does that ever sound familiar!
One of the most heartwrenching odes I have yet experienced, Allison. It sounds like something Mary Wollstonecraft or Emily Dickenson might have written. There is certainly more to love than freedom, however, captivity knows nothing of love. I have favorited this poem, and shall soon be reading more
of you, young lady!
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