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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?