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Click hereThere is a room
with a corner
where stands a mahogany shelf
of fine grained wood
holding one treasure,
a crystal jar
within it, a butterfly
fluttering its pale wings.
Fingertips
touch the pure crystal
leaving prints,
dark smears and white clouds
on the clear surface
marring the perfect beauty
until it opaques.
inside,
the butterfly remains.
Then one day
a hand brushes across
the shelf
brutally
sweeping the crystal
into the air.
I watch it fall,
watch it splinter
but cannot move to catch it.
I walk forward
and look down
at the shattered pieces
of my trust
and stand there
hands by my sides
as Hope,
the pale winged butterfly
flutters away.
I stand alone
in a corner
of a room.
IMHO some of your poems do much more 'telling' rather than 'showing'. Your work is much stronger when you 'paint the picture' instead of just describing it.
Keep reading and writing!
I walk forward
and look down
at the shattered pieces
of my trust
and stand there
hands by my sides
as Hope,
the pale winged butterfly
flutters away.
Wonderful work!