The Butterfly Prisoner
Life hanging by a thread
Cold and dark, am I dead?
This tiny, cramped space
Could it be my tomb?
Or have I been born again,
a return to the womb?
There feels like a weak spot
In the wall by my head
But I can’t move my arms
So I’ll use my teeth instead
To dig through the grey wall
And out into the light
Where I can unfold my coloured wings
Stretch, and take flight
My Words, My World 