A butterfly anchored in flight,
Suspended in root against the summer sky
Wings of the fiction,
A glimpse of life’s design.
Rooted deep, the framework insist,
A twisted truth, It names a wound,
tell a tale, insist you'll fail.
Yet, wings remember a sky unbound
Not shaped by believe, nor fiction.
A blossom blooms, a flower curls;
It reach beyond the inherited world.
To rise, shed the heavy thread
Of failings, of things once said.
Its truth will not be not in the claim,
But in release from your borrowed blame.
A tiny speck, Its spirit soars, dissolving fear.
The past in design, can’t define
a heart that believes it's own design.
Roots still whisper what once was true,
when the sky will call: “Become what’s new.”
With wings spread wide, no longer caught.
Copyright © Anthony Gillespie
