Forbidden – Poem #200

What once was

No longer makes sense

Or what is now

Is just a dream

Holding on to

A fading glance

The smallest twinkle

In the stars

Forbidden, really though?

Three harsh syllables

Butterflies stir

Say it again

The root starts to flame

Forbidden, really though!

With three harsh syllables

The glass ceiling shatters

Leaving butterfly wings

Pinned for display

With three harsh syllables

The flame crawls too high

Singeing the edges

Of hope, leaving dismay

(© August 2011)

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