The butterfly and The Phoenix

It sat in the closet, Mulling over its worthlessness,

Musing and muttering, tied it thought it was,lost it felt, cursing the drudgery of time,

Gripping on to its loss, Gibbering, moaning of its in pain, Refusing to wake up from its miserable trance,

Raving that it desired freedom,  But foolishly ignorant of the key that hung down its bosom,

Rummaging through the closet, Only picking and clutching on to the dented artifacts from its life,

Keeping the guilt, tasting envy, restlessly glancing hither tither hoping for answers from elsewhere

Shedding tears over nothing, Listening to those haunting voices, melodious in there own way,

A fusion of well chosen words and uncanny music,  burnt its wounds,

Wounds it thought felons of time had razored through, Some marks of thrashes self inflicted,

Who chose to walk down those dark lanes, pulling those visions to the surface? It did,

Pushing itself into a void dug by own self,

The soul engulfed in blanket of self woven fatigue, lay asleep,

Blatantly ignoring the whispers that rose from the smoke of a fiery spirit that once sparked with glorious will ,

 

And then a silent being dropped down at its feet, it was all flutters, noisy as it tried to?

Tried to fly, a butterfly it was, Stirred out of its reverie owing to the commotion,

It stared down at the creature, edging away from its restlessness, confused, its eye found the cause,

Such a beautiful, delicate being, yet a pathetic sight to see, a wing half torn,

“Oh my!” The heart stirred with pity, “Fly now ,it can’t,” the soul thought to itself,

Yet engrossed and transfixed in the moment by the sight of its zealous attempts at taking off,

Watching soulfully as the creature slipped down further, devilish gravity thwarting its efforts,

“No, no, no, it lays still, is it dead?” wondering sensing a hopelessness settled again,

Moments passed, it can’t be dead, the brave knight, it needs to live, it deserves to, pleaded the soul,

Seeing the world  through a fog of hopelessness, thus it searched for hope in the tiniest of beings,

“Aaaah,” and it rose, it rose and flew, it sunk low and rose again, and it kept fluttering,

The creature’s beauty now ravished by its power, its strength and will, What a sight it was!

It flew in rounds and an elated soul watched bewildered,

And with a spring of a new bee it vanished into the gardens of this universe,

A spark crackled in the pyre,

A dim light permeated through the smoke,

Fog would clear in time, Would it?  

A poet desires to be honest,

Hope,a phoenix it is,the soul was now in its ring of fire and phoenix would be born soon, hopes the soul.

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Categories: life | 7 Comments

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7 thoughts on “The butterfly and The Phoenix

  1. Out of the ashes of our darkest palces let us rise on the wings of hope. I like your poem. I hope you’re returning to a brighter place.

    On a slightly different subject, I just finished drawing a picture of a butterfly before seeing your post. In some ways my butterfly represents a lost soul (not lost like damned, but lost like it can’t be found). I’ll post it later today to illustrate a story. I’m always amaze when I come up with some imagery and found somebody using something similar on the same day.

    It’s good to see a new post by you

    Like

    • Thanks a lot Trent.. 🙂 It happens to me too… and feels nice.. I am going to check out your blog soon.. 🙂

      I was on a tour to the north Of India, Lots of forts, Maybe I will update my blog soon with pics and memories of my travel..:)

      Liked by 1 person

    • And I forgot to mention, the butterfly with the broken did actually drop down at my feet, it was amazing sight to see:)

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Welcome back Pranita, Missed your beautiful words 🙂

    Like

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