The Butterfly

Just a short little poem that I wrote in class while Mr Newton was droning on about the civil war in 1964 (oops)


1. The Butterfly

The flap of it's wings,

The turn of it's head,

The spiral of colours,

Gold, yellow and red.


I watch it fly,

So careless and free,

And wonder how I would feel,

If that little creature was me.


Captivated I watch,

As it sores high in the sky,

And quietly I mutter,

"Goodbye Butterfly"

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