Butterflies.

Perhaps we’re only flying

because we’re too afraid to fall.

Maybe soon I’ll realise

that these makeshift wings of mine

are nothing more than

woven threads of hopes

and gauze memories.

But your thoughts travel so fast,

I’m surprised they haven’t

been arrested for speeding.

And the skies open for you,

and the wind on your skin

is only as soft

as my sigh of defeat.

Author's Note

Poetry intrigues me. I write as a method or assessing the world as it forms around me. I've never published or displayed my words and I'm interested in what others have to say. Please, tell me what you think. I would love to hear.