I wrote a poem for you yesterday,
Because my heart pumped hope instead of blood,
Because I saw your wings and fell in love
With their exquisite twists of blue and gray.

You beckoned me to play amid the noise
Of water falling from a jagged cliff;
I chased you through the spray and through the mist,
Enchanted by the laughter in your voice

As night consumed the sun's remaining rays,
A nervous knot took shelter in my throat.
You pulled me to your bower, and I thought
I would, at last, find peace in your embrace.

But when I was about to bare myself
To you, I noticed the transparent strings
That pulled ever so subtly at your wings,
Enslaving you, like everybody else.

I'll write a poem for myself tonight;
The puppets will forget their strings and dance,
And I'll pretend that I was not entranced
By yet another paper butterfly.


(I wanted to edit this and make it more coherent, but that process got stuck in an infinite loop. Now too much time has passed, so I'm just backdating this to the time I wrote it, and publishing it as unpolished as it is.)