Death of a butterfly

I heard a song of the butterfly clear and loud;
the shine of his wings and his jewel eyes held my gaze;
my indigo blue butterfly,
who had sunshine bright yellow dots on his wings.
He sang and took me under his wings,
he fluttered and sat on my shoulder,
his whispers kept echoing into my ears,
a cavalcade of strange nomadic happiness around us!

But soon, the slithering snakes of mistrust and despair
started climbing up my soul;
the soothing fire fly in between my fingers became ferocious
and burnt us!
In a frenzied rage
I tore apart his indigo blue yellow dotted wings.
I saw him quivering and bleeding on my palm,
sparkled blue eyes were already dying a death

of betrayal.

Now, I keep trying to write and re-write my poetry,
scratching, cancelling, erasing my lines,
pages after pages get crumpled in my fist,
my futile efforts to make my words concise,
my failure to bring back the old rhythm,
now my words deny me.

Today I remain as powerless to give birth to poesy
as I was incapable to love!