Cobwebs on the corners of the mind,
With a spidery thought in its midst,
An unsuspecting fly of trust flits by,
Only to be gnawed and nipped.
A mammoth arachnid that’s learnt,
That trust does not always beget one,
A time when it was a butterfly,
Spreading its wings in the sun.
Cruelly clipped by master fate,
And replaced with a murkier twist,
Slowly that’ll transform too,
Could it be spared the tryst?
How oh how do I bring back,
My butterfly back to life?
Erase the agony, the pain, the suffering,
The vengeance and all the strife.
Will the tiny drops of morning dew,
And the first bright rays of the sun,
Wash away the cobwebs and,
Bring back the colours and fun?
Perhaps it has not the muscle,
To blanket the hurt and fear,
A storm maybe, will wash the dirt,
In its grimness, bring back the cheer.