Was studying late last night when a yellow butterfly fluttered around me, taunting me to end its meaningless life within the pages of my 'TCP/IP Illustrated Vol I'. It was pushing its luck, I tell you. The audacity to land on my book right under my nose while I was reading it... Grr...
An unaccomplished mugger is a dangerous person to play punk with.
And here's a poem I dedicate to it, for all its insolence:
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A Yellow Butterfly
Twas but a butterfly that knows not where to go in the night -
a flittering pursuit.
It embraces what it sees,
but doesn't quite reach.
Against the glass door, for the love of the other side.
It's not a moth, blindly burning into the lights - It knows better of things it doesn't. Why the carefree flitter?
At me it flew close,
a fragile yet lovely creature.
For fear of its beauty I pulled away,
yet so longing for its soft caress.
Fearless in my presence,
it flutters around me:
Curious.
I dare not move.
I will not startle it.
Flutters,
flitters,
flutters away.
Not a touch on my vulgar self.
How I am jealous of the dirt wall it perches upon now.
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