Deja Vu
I tend to my collection of butterflies,
in the dank basement of my lodge.
Caged pallets of fluttering anemia -
their beauty no longer enchants me;
I still forage for them every morning
in dew laden springs and through parched summers.
The hope they will restore me diminishing;
the nub of my intentions more blunt everyday.
I traipse through this ritual, praying time will
re-consider me, as I whittle away my life
Fashioning new cages for tomorrow, with
my death as imminent as the creek of my rocking chair.
So, I just finished the final draft of this poem recently. Let me know what you think of it in the comments section.
What was the main theme for you? How did it make you feel? What did you take from it, if anything?
Critique away!
Peace,
Sam
