It came into the sight from nowhere
It tore apart my bloated brain cells for sometime
This is the moment to shed my weights
I pondered, I pondered, I pondered, it is my sin!
When I was thinking together with a friend
We could make a thinking day out
Of many vague and ugly living beings
Of many sharp eyed scenes of beauty and craft
As if to remind me about those days
When I was flying full black and flummoxed
There were black butterflies in my torn shirts
There were black butterflies in my dry cheeks
There were black butterflies in my lipid skin
Usually Black butterflies will have yellow patterns
In their wings, no patterns, no prints, no designs this time
He asked me to think about my pen
I said it looked like a black butterfly
We laughed together
We knew it wasn’t
We knew that a black butterfly and a pen cannot be the same
Why do we need all these analogies?
Why do we latch on to the metaphors?