There was a time, once upon many a sigh,
The butterfly flew a mile and soared his wings high
The moth shined a smile and lived a lie.
Cruelty, unfairness; haters never shy
For the mockers, criers, disbelievers,
God posted this alibi.
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Born the same, peas in two pupae
One grew to a beanstalk; the other, dreary shrub disarray
Their formative years, the path was laid
The eye of the world put to blame.
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The dim moth sits by day and spites by night
Coveting the butterfly’s plum red stripes
His dark silhouette abhorred by birth right
His life painted grey, his mind tainted by strife
For days and days, he guilted his plight.
Call for a change, he instructs himself,
For no longer will I be the same.
Bring on a spectrum of hues, he dyes himself,
Streak me red-orange, violet-blue,
For I shall be born a butterfly askew.
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He flew the miles and soared his wings high
He bloomed to the brightest prime, in his disguise
He sang the rhymes, and romanced the chimes
He splashed his hue sublime, he rose to the divine
He lived a lie, virtue masking his crime.
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Then one fine day,
Rain led his parade
Straying the masked colors away
Laughter mirroring the moth’s wails.
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The dim moth sits by day and cries by night
For days and days, angered by his plight
Till one day he sees a shining yellow light
Torn by jealousy, overcome by curiosity
He makes his way, to the source of his gaze.
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He sees himself in the glistening glass bulb
A dark shadow of shimmering charcoal
Looking in his eye, he sees the fleeting glow
And soul by soul, the dawning within grows;
The rich charcoal was always on sight
All that missing, was the spark to set it alight.
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Today, he swifts by the sky
Soaring mile high, unfazed by day or time
Burning brightest at his prime in the darkest of nights.
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For a dry core and dull mind
One match of flame will suffice
To see in a new light, to see in perspective
To glance within and be reflective
To swell that warmth in your life
One match of passion will suffice.
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The eye of beauty, the eye of grapes sour
All in the hands of the mighty endower.
For us mere mortals, however;
To surrender to the worldly qualms,
To surrender to the inner wonders,
Lay in the eyes of our cockeyed power.
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Find that light, find your colour
Find that bud that makes you flower
Be not the passive paint, be the pungent painter
Mark the mirror with your power.
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