Golden warmth of sun doodled
Something on her cheek.
Like the resurrection of soft dawn in Alaska,
Gradually she opened her cheery eyes
And whispered inside my numbness,
“I can make colours fly.”
Slumber shattered into pieces of bliss
As she entangled the tenderness
Of her fingers, and
Her palms in synthesis,
And made it fly like a mythical butterfly.
My amused self asked her curiously,
“Where are the colours?”
Holding her dancing butterfly
Infront of my eyes
She replied in a honeyed voice,
**“Those are flying amidst your insight.”