Thursday, July 23, 2015
What the Master Calls a Butterfly
Metamorphosis brings pain
A necessary pain perhaps that transforms the chrysalis into
a butterfly
But pain nevertheless
The stone block must needs bear the sculptor’s hammer and
chisel
The empty canvas the sting of paint and turpentine
The virgin page the scratch and scrape of an ink-laden quill
The passion of creation emerges through pain molten and frozen
in shades and layers
As our love for each other
Built with blood and tears through new moons and high noons
At what cost does the soul watch each filigree fall to the
vagaries of time and tide
Each aspect shed itself as does a chrysalis
At what cost does one learn to let go
And let the butterfly soar…
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