Broken Butterfly

In a forest of weeping willows,
Whose roots pervade throughout
The dry dead dirt, the Earth seems
To banish them from life.
The moss lazily, lifelessly clings to their tears,
As though they have not the energy,
To fight for their lives.
Scattered across this deserted land,
Are patches of bleeding hearts,
So pink in their painful, beautiful misery.
Delilahs show their colors, their murderous colors.
The thick fog encompasses the trees,
Making the cries in my ears dampen.
But, I can't escape the colors of these flowers.
I stumble upon root after root,
Searching for the fog's end.
"This is surely hopeless!"
My voice echos, bouncing
Off of the unseen weeping trees.
As if attracted to my voice,
I butterfly flutters clumsily before me.
I gently embrace it with my hands.
It flickers beneath it's distracting wings.
Beautiful, amazing, but, black.
I know I cannot touch it's wings,
For just that will take it's freedom,
It's flight.
But, as it flutters in my hands,
I realize it's wings are torn.
I look around,
As if to find some impossible answer to help.
Instead, all I see is a field of butterflies,
All still,
All lifeless,
All full of color.
The last one lies in my hands with broken wings.
And then I realize,
I am not there to help myself,
I am here to help them,
These creatures who have not lost the will to survive.
I begin to walk in the direction this lost soul was flying,
And together,
We saw the first glimpse of shining light.





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