The Butterfly - Poem by Morgan Phillips
Catch me in your net,
Study me with inquisitive eyes,
The future I have foretold has been set.
Beware, my captor, of all of your compulsive lies.
Stuck in a jar,
A sealed glass cage,
My people separated few and far,
My dying life suspended by rage.
The scratch of your pencil screams,
Against the yellowed papyrus page,
Colored ink closes in the seams.
Look closer, you will see, I’m not blue, but a golden sage.
Your little girl finds me fascinating,
Only a few things I will ask,
Give me back my wings for flying,
And please ask your daughter to stop shaking the glass.
Your scalpel brings me no joy,
Removing my only span of hope.
I am not a toy.
No never again will my wings and I elope.
Press my scaled soul like flowers,
Label it very precisely.
I have been stripped of all my worldly powers,
No revenge I shall exact will be done the least bit nicely.
The day has come,
You have let me go.
The world has lost its color for some,
This only goes to show.
The reds seem dull,
The blues seem shallow,
Helpless I cry, helpless I pull
My once beautiful body has come so low.
I’m to curl in a corner,
Beneath my old favorite petal,
My lifespan forced shorter,
Every move I make, it’s like i'm made of lead metal.
My last few moments,
In natures once beautiful land,
Even a winged angel cries and laments,
And comes to take a broken butterflies hand
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