My Butterfly

My Butterfly

To all of those people who knew me, to the anguish I thought would pursue me, to the pleasure I once felt had left me behind: I’ve learned that one’s heart is the measure of life--how golden am I, how lucky to find my butterfly.

She’s the tenderest sight, my highest delight…so lovely and bright, so graceful in flight; the treasures she brings are spectacular things, though not of the palpable kind. They are gifts of the soul. What a glad, gifted guy! How giddy am I, to be high in the eye of my butterfly.

She comes radiant, if the sun don’t shine, delicate, when our moods align; confess, you gods, since you made her mine, how dare I caress this unique precious stone…have I not been a heel, at times too remote for my friends to approach…have I not been resigned to these clouds in my mind; could I have bent just a bit, and still been able to feel.

I’ve been arrogant, with a nasty rap, truculent, far too quick to snap; against all odds I righted my spine, and wandered the night in a funk all alone. Nowhere to go. I was torn yet obsessed, the signature traits of a loser possessed, and just might have passed that tremulous glow, melting the night from a warm giving light, and still be unable to heal.

To all of those people I once thought outgrew me, to those gossips and ghouls, may they all misconstrue me, I realize it now: that plastic abyss left me hobbled and blind. I’ve learned that one’s heart is the measure of life--and new eyes have I when I’m lost in her kiss--how crazy is this…I’ve found perfect bliss in my butterfly.