She is the butterfly to my moth,
So beautiful, so magnificent, so delicate,
And I am just here.
She is the light that my moth will follow,
Shining, brilliant and blinding
I will always pale in her glow,
But still, I fly to her.
She is the butterfly I chase across a field,
She'll always be going but she's never quite gone.
She is the sun that shines down on my field,
Warming me crimson and loving me gold.
But.
She does not love me.
She does not like me.
She does not even know me,
The way I feel I know her.
She is the butterfly to my "just me",
She is the sun on my field.
She is the light my moth will always follow,
But she is the rainbow I cannot catch.
YOU ARE READING
Organized Chaos - These are My Thoughts
PoetryNo, These are not poems. So flimsy a thing as can be called a few words on a page. These are thoughts. Paper thoughts, broken and scattered and gone like the wind. Iron anvil thoughts, never leaving though it is all I can ever ask of them. Invisible...
