He crafted her gossamer wings, though she swore them cardboard.
Slight, radiant, a rare butterfly within, never on ground, though grounded,
a lover of life. When love took flight, she flew, caught in a whirlwind;
above clouded Amsterdam, Van Gogh had painted her freedom, blue;
yet they turned blood-red under Roman rule; the Irish left them deeply
faceted, glinting emerald light; each lover coloring her starting story;
slightly torn, seeking to cocoon until renewed.
Autumn leaves scented the air; burnished land, home fires flared;
a lofty vista, reborn, she flew; a piper’s lute, called to her, a ribbon
of notes he blew; in rapture, he captured, another wing frayed as she
escaped his poisoned song; searching reprieve, a honeyed tongued lord
beckoning; a moth to flame, a dangerous game, only escaping did she realize
another wing burnt in vain.
Into the depths of elder stands, broken form weaving, floating dawn’s
wave; a silver thread caught what was left until morning; unwoven,
the widow, colourful as a moonless sky, snipped the strangling
web of life. Before she let her free, she said: “Dear blue butterfly,
blessed, artful wings of life; despite love’s consumption of body,
a gift of flight still rides; close your eyes and trust the lead,
hold on once more, you will find where he, left grace’s light.”
This prose poem was fashioned for the prompt by ViewfromtheSide’s weekend challenge word, cardboard. All are welcome to check in on Friday and link up through out the weekend.