She is a black, black butterfly
The darkest mark in the brightest sky,
Wings painfully charcoaled dark as night
By an artist called Life Gone By.
She lingers close to earth and rock
Hiding meekly beneath the winds.
Dare you follow her ever unguided path
of darts and dashes and tortured spins?
For she is a butterfly
too much stillness may bring her death.
So she must exhaust herself!
in reckless movement and baited breath.
The artistry within her wings is vacant
No color nor design define her.
One finds her cocooned in the ice of despair
Hoping faith and mercy unwind her.
For she is a black, black butterfly
And I know her colors well.
I know the sickness of the spell
that bleached lively wings white
then blackens them darkly into night.
I know this little black butterfly
A tiny heart of night.
For she is me,
For she is I,
Just one, little, black butterfly.
Karen Kaye, 2009