Pinboard

Thu, 02/19/2015 - 12:24 -- igc099

Dangling slow from groping hands,
Gently aflutter, wing'ed lace is limp.
Tired wings flitting, once grand.
How wrinkled and red and crimped.

Would they blame nectar? Would they blame
The cloth the butterfly slips into, its pattern?
While the sky is out of reach, they'll say, What A Shame
Of the man who pricked his fingertip after.

Up on the wall she sits silent,
Shut away in glass casket–or plaque.
On corkscrew bed, brilliant, vibrant.
Tack Tack Tack.

This poem is about: 
Our world

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741