A Gothic butterfly
floating amist
No where to land
No flower to kiss
None yet Mastered
her delicate wings
colors so bold
complexity she brings
Seasons they change
and time it goes on
Swiftly she moves
Her motives withdrawn
The sun it does set
and the moons all aglow
onward she flies
to the light that she knows
Moon beams majestic
White glitter adorned
Her wings of protection
a cocoon reformed
Indigenous to fly
Never to fall
She migrates onward
No Master at all
Elizabeth Taylor
Feb 3/2011
“How does one become a butterfly? You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar.”
–Trina Paulus
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