Collectors wait
For the cocoon to crack
Before they collect
Their fee,
Pinning her wings
On their display board
For all their friends
To see,
Even though this
Pathetic being’s
Wings still flap
With the urge to escape.
But who is to blame?
Do butterflies feel pain
When they come
Too close to heat?
Do they blame
The fingers of
Those of who who
Adore the beauty,
And inadvertently
Singe them?
We live our lives
Wearing wax wings,
And complain
When they melt
When we get too near
To the sun,
Claiming, blaming
The collector
For admiring her
Too much
When it fact
It is the worm
That has turned,
And the cocoon’s
Cracking
That reveals her.
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