Poetry is the butterflies
caught in the cobwebs of the poets soul
being set free fluttering ink on blank pages
...Lisa Parks
Dust and cobwebs cloak poets soul.
Trapped darkness, no escape.
Poet picks up a quill
dipped in their life's blood.
Pen to paper guts spill out
overflowing tears, drip as their sadness
falls.
The butterfly fights to emerge
struggles in ferocity, to be loosed.
Slowly line after line,
Poetry is born...
Pains sorrows turns to joyous triumph
as wings flutter
beauty upon poets memoirs.
Colors emergence turn black and white.
To embroidered passion, from poets agony,
to blissful victory over emotions.
Poetry is set free.
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