The butterflies did not come out today.
But you and I were there, trying to fly,
Trying to move on, get over it, live with it.
Still without wings we struggle to understand,
Resolve, comprehend, silently hoping to make amends.
The sky softly wept, my tears turned out.
I heard your heart suffering, screaming,
Saw the pain and frustration in your eyes.
Your face, hard and drawn, trying to be brave,
While every fiber strained against the self-slave.
The sun did not shine on the glade's flower display.
The quarry cave was dark, damp and haunting,
The predator had killed the prey.
We repressed our anger, denied our feelings, afraid,
Choked on our compassion and promises made.
We carefully tended our distance and doubt.
Adverting our glances, sheltering our hearts,
Believing all within would not betray us.
The fire burning, reshaping, forging our steel,
Breathing, rising up to comfort against the chill.
The butterflies did not come out today.
But you and I were there, trying to fly,
Daring to change, to live and to be our true selves.
Still without wings we struggle to understand,
What love means to the children of man.
Submitted: May 30th, 2003
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