Fly

The butterfly is fading
Her wings limp
Her colour flaccid
Once she held the blue of moon
White of clouds and dreams
She clings to me
Like a ghost
Her lines disappearing
Phantom like
In today's lost
Hours pale
Minutes suffocated yet frenzied
I sit under the tree
Try to find the rabbit hole
Quietly whisper
Alice Alice
But she's silent
All gone
I cannot write my book of colour
I cry
Secretly underneath the leaves
I cannot write my book of colour
When the pages are dark
Crumpled up in puzzles
Half chewed
Half done
Half left behind
Half gone
Bouncy balls on filthy carpets
Crayons painful as daggers to hold
Women lie on the floor
They become children
It is safer that way
Their limbs grow heavy
Their heads loll tired
Abandoned by the agility of life and breath
I breathe
Feel the rain
The leaves move
The sky breaking through cloud
Keep going keep going
The book of colour must be written
The butterfly must regain her wings
And fly
We must fly
High above the fences and carpets
Never will we stick to the floor
Waiting to be mended
We are not a puzzle chewed and spat on
We are
We are.