A gentle lullaby, the flicker of wings, a butterfly. A glimmer of light, a splash of paint; a bird in flight, without restraint. Halo high. Open mind. Perfect chance. Euphoria.
• • • • - - - • - - • • But in the dark, when all is still - Panicked cries. Anxious waits. Icy hearts. Nothing.
Fighting and falling, screaming and crying, she runs and hides, she tries and fails; And by the end of the day - she’s dying. The sun is setting, the night is rising, and she’s dying.
- when comes the time of dark and blight, when I deny my streak of light, my butterfly, choose black or white - • • • • - - - • - - • • And…
Maybe she was right - She who has feathers, and perches in the soul, singing tunes without words, and never ever stops.
She who sings a song of a faraway land; of the light at the end of the tunnel; who sings to hold on because pain always ends; who whispers “Maybe!” when the whole world screams “No!”
Who sings that life can change; because sometimes, the wrong choices bring you to the right places. And when life beats you down to the ground, you get knocked down 1, 10, 100 times, but you always get back up 2, 11, 101 times;
because it’s not how many times you get knocked down, but whether you get up or not.
And it’s okay if you fall down and lose your spark - just make sure that when you get back up, you rise as the whole damn fire. Because she says that it's okay to lose, but it's not okay to quit.
• • • • - - - • - - • • And I pick up my pen and start scribbling a new path.
Because the night was dark, but the sun will rise brighter than the day before; and when the sky takes on the shades of orange and purple during sunrise and sunset, it’s the color that gives you hope that the sun will set only to rise again.
Because sometimes, the brightest sunrise follows the darkest night; because the pain was real, but so is hope.
• • • • - - - • - - • • So come the day of song and light, when I embrace my streak of light, my butterfly, no longer caged, she flew along and saved my life.
She tells me: an artist bends down to pick up the scraps of a fallen sculpture - to start over and make something even more beautiful. And perhaps… maybe, just maybe, had I left her balm to my frenzied pain, and stretched her wings and soared to heaven -
Maybe things would be… so different. • • • • - - - • - - • • She’s never hiding from us, she’s always right in front of us; sometimes we just need to open our eyes a little more because the message will never just decode itself.
5 lines 7 dots; more meaningful than they seem.
References to: - Hope by Emily Bronte - Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson - Quotes from Colette Werden - Quotes from Ram Charan
Author's Note: "• • • • - - - • - - • •" is Morse Code for "hope". This poem refers to hope as something that is always present, but will only be found if we look hard enough, which draws parallels to how the word "hope" appears frequently throughout this poem, but will only be found if the code is decoded.