Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

Silence in the draw of his illusive wings,
Passing eyes pick away at his mystery,
Years of examining his paths and patterns,
Will still never be enough to guess where he may finally land to rest,

Silence in the crack of his gentle heart,
How it breaks ever so slightly with each feeble pass of time,
His screams cannot be heard over the roaring engine of a stubborn society,

Silence in his waining portrait,
Shapes and colors hand painted by an omniscient God,
With a frame sculpted from clay by the same figure within the heavens in which he flies,

Silence in the still of his beauty,
How is it that the creature unarguably holding the most beauty also holds the most...
...silence?,
...mystery?,
...hurt?,

Take these broken wings and learn to fly,
Oh, look, theres a butterfly
What kind? What kind?
An orange one
He’s so tiny
His little wings are fluttering
How?
A secret, Alice. Theres something else nobody knows. And i am going to tell you. The truth is, i can fly without my wings, Alice. I can fly all my myself. Its something I’ve... always been able to do...

Take him away,
Away to a place where he may flourish and rejoice,
To a place where he is accepted, appreciated, and understood,
A place to bathe his wings with the sun so that he may finally be whole,
Fly,
Fly ButterFly Away,
Into the light of the dark, black night.