Today a butterfly landed on my fingertips
I did not admire its beauty,
Not did I try to make the creature mine.
I was simply amused; thinking
I wasn't a sweet flower,
I wasn't a pretty colourful creature,
I contained no muse
I possessed no value
Why did such a holy and untouched beauty
Rest itself, grazing the devil's fingers
Of the fallen Angel contaminated by Lucifer himself?
If I could answer myself,
With justice to the devil within,
It would be-
The butterfly, the pretty, pure butterfly,
Was one of us.
A creature's soul is not determined by its pretty wings
A being's power is not to be assumed by it's gracefulness
The darkness within is not always spread equally in the appearance,
As we deem to think a devil's whole body should be in darkness... No, always, it's not.
How would I know this?
Because monsters beneath recognize each other
With every touch, we recognize the rushing and pounding of our impure hearts within
Our soft quilted pale skin
With every breath, we recognize the excitement, mischievously blended with the air humans breathe in lovingly
With every dance, we recognise our intentions, that are buzzing blank in our minds
When some of our kind refuses to belong,
Because of fear,
Of unacceptance,
Of imperfection,
Of standing out;
But that's who we are dear,
Each one of us stand tall and out,
Each one of us shines like each star in the sky ,
Even within the dim light,
We all shine, equally;
In this pitch black atrium.
Where no one finds us, truly
As we view the whole world,
From here.
