I had a poem deep inside,
Just bursting to break free,
Created for nobody else,
Written just for me.
She fluttered ‘round inside me,
Like a frightened little thing,
A butterfly of colors,
With such fragile, silken wings.
I tried to coax her out one night,
To listen to her tune,
Although I tried, I think she died,
A whisper lost too soon.
She didn’t stir for such a time,
I feared she might be lost,
Perhaps she just lies sleeping,
Like a hibernating moth.
I hope one day I’ll feel her move,
And fly as if she’s whole,
And that some day her colours,
Will reflect upon my Soul.
But just for now I’ll sit and wait,
And write of other things,
Until my poem butterfly,
Flies free to spread her wings.
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