The Butterfly

Fiction | January 17, 2008 | Share

Amorphous shadows lay deathly still
As the purest of blood did flow……
Once a creature of light, the butterfly-
Shrouded in darkness, died… alone

The twisted wings cast a broken pattern-
An uneven tapestry etched into the night
A broken memory from when the butterfly did fly…
Through the sleepy hues of my mind…

Born from the chrysalis of my sacred dreams
This creature lived within my soul
painting the darkness with dazzling colours
it embodied my fragile hopes

but the butterfly could not survive
the jagged edges of reality which
ripped it’s flesh with mendacious lies
and cut through it’s wings paper thin

so my butterfly withered away
upon the asphalt where it lay
leaving behind thoughts, scattered and misplaced
that whisper softly of dreams shattered..
never to be replaced….

Ananya Mitra

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