Harken not in hate
Whence thine love's words may repair
Hither, thine aching heart

The butterfly is a frugal fellow
His dancing wings float ever aloft
He is always well mannered and mellow
Yet deemed queer because he's modest and soft

He passes his time in contemplation
Placates with colourful diplomacy
Works hard and avoids procrastination
He's artful and filled with tenacity

Not a slurp when, his ambrosia, he sips
His etiquette shows: it is well entrenched
For outings and ins he'll sure catch that tip
The rarest charm to behold but not clenched

Luck sees you such a butterfly at play
He's a frugal fellow and so he'll stay.

The boy was homeless
He had been strolling the streets
alone
amid all the bustle and haste
He was lost at every turn

Gazing wildly
he saw everything
Nothing was the same
Except
An old soda can

He kicked it with contentment
along his journey
to no discernible place
Frail and pale
He limped along

Not a visible emotion
garnished his fragile face
His body kept some secrets
It murmured
softly into the darkness.

What's heaven for waking eyes?
A ripened pleasure hanging in dawn
On the last limb of a tree
A mango
As yellow as the sunshine

Filled with a fresh determination
wearing a precious laugh
Trembling
He climbed
Trembling to the very top

He stretched to the fruit
The fruit stretched
Into his hand
and his sinking teeth
quenched his dying hunger

The boy's face dripping with joy
as he dripped
Slowly
Sadly
to a trodden sidewalk

He held a solemn smile
on his crimson face
This once homeless boy
had found
his own place