When I finally got the chance to look inside,
Just a glimpse into its depths;
I saw light.
A butterfly was fluttering around,
Free as anything I had ever seen,
Flying gracefully through endless possibilities,
Revealing its radiant beauty to eager explorers.
Below, daisies smiled up at me.
Lush bluegrass envied the tantalizing roses,
Swaying lightly in a summer breeze.
I gently closed the poem back up, Careful not to disturb the harmonious atmosphere.
Pondering what I saw that day,
I peer inside again,
Hoping for piercing rays to illuminate my soul,
But everything is dark;
Gloomy ghosts drift lifelessly,
Hovering over cold, unresponsive wings.
Daisies have wilted; the bluegrass now brown.
A lone rose stands amidst death itself;
I attempt to save it but am hindered by a thorn,
Stabbing my skin.
I curse and blood drips on a poignant scene.
I slam the poem closed.
Perhaps if I revisit this ever-changing garden,
The butterfly will greet me,
And land softly on my timid finger,
Healing a sore wound,
Once created by a thorn.
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