My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

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

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