Butterfly Free
How strange he is, they say.
How odd, they whisper.
How wrong, they think.
Butterflies are free, he replies. They live life brightly and free and then they die.
He wakes up before dawn and goes down to the street, standing on top of the wall beside the road and staring up at the sky, watching the colours change. He smiles at the passers by, and they scurry away to their grey jobs and dark cars, afraid of his light.
Once the sun is up and the grey people take over the streets, he walks to the park, singing to himself off key and happily. He kneels in the green carpet and stares at the beetles that march up bowing boughs of leaves and talks to the birds.
He hears music and his face lights up, and he follows the sound til he finds it so he can dance. He dances right there on the street, oblivious to the grey people as he lets the music take him, lets himself soar high into the bright blue sky away from their taint.
He sings along to the melody on the big TV, waiting for the green man to come. He sings on while he crosses the zebra, leaping from stripe to stripe. There’s no one there to catch him when he falls into the sky, free.
One day he decides that he wants the sunlight on his hair, so he buys a bottle of it in the convenience store and douses himself in its rays. After, he glows.
One day the world turns around and he’s still there. But his off key voice and silly songs have blossomed into a sweet and strong melody. His sunny brightness draws in the grey people, and his smiles light up their world. People notice him, and they talk.
How different he is, they say.
How beautiful, they whisper.
How do I have him, they think.
But he’s not theirs, you think. They didn’t see him then, but you did. You did, and he’s yours, not theirs. They’re dirty and grey and they can’t have him. Can’t have him at all.
So you catch him, gently net him, drawing him back down to earth where you can keep him right there beside you fluttering away and shining brightly. Brightly, but not free.
Your little butterfly.
How odd, they whisper.
How wrong, they think.
Butterflies are free, he replies. They live life brightly and free and then they die.
He wakes up before dawn and goes down to the street, standing on top of the wall beside the road and staring up at the sky, watching the colours change. He smiles at the passers by, and they scurry away to their grey jobs and dark cars, afraid of his light.
Once the sun is up and the grey people take over the streets, he walks to the park, singing to himself off key and happily. He kneels in the green carpet and stares at the beetles that march up bowing boughs of leaves and talks to the birds.
He hears music and his face lights up, and he follows the sound til he finds it so he can dance. He dances right there on the street, oblivious to the grey people as he lets the music take him, lets himself soar high into the bright blue sky away from their taint.
He sings along to the melody on the big TV, waiting for the green man to come. He sings on while he crosses the zebra, leaping from stripe to stripe. There’s no one there to catch him when he falls into the sky, free.
One day he decides that he wants the sunlight on his hair, so he buys a bottle of it in the convenience store and douses himself in its rays. After, he glows.
One day the world turns around and he’s still there. But his off key voice and silly songs have blossomed into a sweet and strong melody. His sunny brightness draws in the grey people, and his smiles light up their world. People notice him, and they talk.
How different he is, they say.
How beautiful, they whisper.
How do I have him, they think.
But he’s not theirs, you think. They didn’t see him then, but you did. You did, and he’s yours, not theirs. They’re dirty and grey and they can’t have him. Can’t have him at all.
So you catch him, gently net him, drawing him back down to earth where you can keep him right there beside you fluttering away and shining brightly. Brightly, but not free.
Your little butterfly.