Soon she will grow from the womb,
From the cocoon, her treasured tomb.
So weak from week to week,
Until the peak where she will seek.
New wings to spread without dread,
Amidst the beds of restless heads.
Miss cornucopia of color bringing bliss,
Her wish with a beautiful bold butterfly kiss.
It's only the norm for storms to arise,
Tied, weighted by droplets from the sky.
Expecting to be caged sets her into a rage,
She disobeys, fighting filled with sage.
They'll spring, try to rip off her wings,
Though it may sting, she'll still sing.
Knowing all the while with guile,
She'll be defiled against her style.
She'll be riled but hold her smile,
Head flying high mile after mile
Until with a flit that final cloud hits,
With a twit and a twirl into the pits.
Please pray this happens not in any way.
She could in decay be mounted to stay,
Where she may lay at all times of the day,
But I say be free to wither away!
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