When Young Boys Can’t Be Poets

When Young Boys Can’t Be Poets

A wavy caterpillar crawls on humble earth,
On leaves cosy with morning litter,
Content at outgrowing the egg at birth,
Sated with his semblance of green glitter.

A lustful butterfly makes him stare high,
As it playfully changes hue at it’s flight,
Rustling and bustling it winks from the sky,
It’s stranded friend queries from his plight.

“Can’t I escape the pupa and fly into the air?
Can’t I talk to the bees, up halt and stare?
The butterfly is just a merry state of thought,
For this, who’d have a ten-day war fought?”

And so are poets of this thick speckled age,
Barely twenty, they see the world as a cage,
Write on it’s beauteous walls and shade,
Wond’ring what’s on the other blade.

When freedom is not in the mind’s state,
Poesy is as transient as musing is on slate.

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