The poet, a butterfly

The butterfly is burdened
By first and foremost its name
Its lithe body bearing that lame
“Flying butter’’! It’s bewildered!

When mocked, the poet creates
Towers of Babel scratching the slates
Of the dark-blue hefty Heavens above
Its urge to spring free it cannot solve:

It’s compelled to flap
Its wings shiny with arcane dust
Over flowers sipping the ***** sap
Yellow and warm like a baked crust!

If you ever touch this creature
Pointing your finger at nature
It will fly away, to never return
Ruthless human, what did you earn?

The powder on your skin from the aerial
Grey and sticky, you’ll dispose off
You can’t write with this material
The veil the insect was so in need of…

Let it be overwhelmed with its gift
This hydromel from the skies high
You cannot grasp all the gist
Of those who breathe and ache to fly!

March 30, 2016
Lyon 2 University