Butterfly

The one winged butterfly, he tried so hard yet flew too high,

Two flaps for one he done, and he almost touched the sky.

But burned hot by the orange sun, he spiraled down to die,

Yet the ground opened under him, caught by the Devil nearby.

He said God's scraps are pure crap and mine always to be,

Any mental or ill health, are all torture plans for me.

That being up top, he never stops, only wanting Angels regrettably,

But any defect is deep regret, so he bin bags them for me.

The butterfly replied through blurry eyes, looking up to cloudy sky,

Those scraps may be your crap, but to me I have to ask why?

I suspect you've wept and over kept, fake Ken's and pretend Barbies,

You've lost out on a real corrupt soul, all just to take me?

I maybe Heaven scorned but I'm not Hell born, even if now owned by thee,

But I won't play or sing your Devil songs, and kill just to please.

Because Devil crap ain’t bubble wrapped, your realm won't be shaped by me,

Your worshipers are just irreparable and have no souls to need.

The horned one debated some before over come, and let the butterfly go,

No more time for talking now, he flapped his wing so fast not slow.

He was very high, clouds below, this was a path he didn't know,

Yet just as he faded and starting to doubt, from afar came a bright light show,

When he had flown high enough, he neared a glimmering shore,

So happy he was when Heaven neared, soon he'd tire no more.

The butterfly had made it up, he had landed right at Heaven's door,

But St. Peter said, “No luck son, UKIPS in, we don't take insects no more”

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid