The Butterfly

I believe I know how to be a servant.
Although I do not hear your voice with my ears,
my heart hears a soft whisper today.

I was solid, a rock of granite.
As I felt my will, I fell into the depths.
Like a butterfly, I molted in the afternoon.
Now I know I have your wings.

I would try to fight your breeze.
It took a storm to break me down.
A butterfly floats through the air.
While it is a slave to the wind,
it finds the strength to guide its path.

W. Wayne B.

© 2012 W. Wayne B.

About William Wayne Smith

I'm a poet, library fan and maker.
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