Butterfly and Caterpillar

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another fantastic collaboration with the great Hullabaloo22 that takes place down the rabbit hole!

Submitted: September 28, 2018

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Submitted: September 28, 2018

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Meandering the meadow,

enjoying now my flight,

I realize that I’ve gone wrong

for there into my sight

appears a great big mushroom,

or toadstool, if you please;

and a strange aroma

that makes me want to sneeze.

 

“Who are you?” I say,

to the fluttering thing fluttering round.

It dances in a daze, coloured green like the haze

I expel with each sound

of my stuffy voice,

for my lungs are filled with smoke.

I watch the fluttering thing flutter closer,

a billowing cloud makes it choke;

it’s not my fault can’t you see

for I merely wish it to leave me be.

 

It seems to want to talk with me,

it seems to think I planned

to end up in the strangest place,

to be here in this land.

It’s down to faulty navigation

that I ended up so lost.

I’ve yet got to find out

how much will be the cost.

I suppose I’d better answer,

in truth and not a lie;

“Me,” I say, indignantly,

“I am a butterfly!”

I flitter and I flutter,

not quite sure if I should land

beside this strangest creature

who does have the upper hand.

 

Such an impudent tone in which it answers,

this butterfly that flutters before me;

a drag from my hookah will mend the mood

and send a soothing wave through my prolonged body.

My dozens of feet twitch with the pleasure

and my eyes roll like a lazy towel,

yet this butterfly continues to glare at me

with an ugly, impatient scowl.

Why must it bother me so

with its energetic hovering?

How long before it decides to go

and leave me to my languid mellowing?

I can see it will not leave just yet,

it intends to stay and haunt;

so with a drawl from my pipe,

I query, “What do you want?”

 

“I did not mean to bother you,

or cause any upset;

remember that I’ve lost my way

or did you just forget.

My wings are tired from beating,

I need a little rest,

I really am exhausted but

I’ll move if you protest.

I only wanted to be friends,

and say to you ‘Hello’,

but if my presence bothers you

I’ll just get up and go.

But maybe you would like to talk,

but careful with that smoke;

I’m not so used to things so pungent

and it makes me want to choke.”

 

“How can you get up if you have not yet landed?”

I’ll ponder on that for a moment or two

before returning my attention

back to the green image of you:

the butterfly who does insist

to flutter round and round

fanning smoke back in my face,

instead of taking a seat on the ground.

“If it is your desire, then come and do join me

though, I should not care to be disturbed;

please mind my many feet when you land,

take a seat and look not so perturbed.”

I shift to create more space,

offering you a place to land, though it’s so little;

“Now, please recite a lesson,” I say to it,

for my attention is quite fickle.

 

“A lesson you are asking for?

Well, did you even know

that soon you will be changing

through a process that is slow.

You’ll be getting tired and

a long sleep will be needed;

you’ll be wrapped inside a soft cocoon

while the changes are extended.

Instead of all those many feet

you’ll get to spread your wings

and get to find how flying

is the greatest of all things.

Of course, that’s if you make it,

after puffing on that pipe

and breathing all those fumes

that smell of rot and over-ripe.”

Maybe I should have picked another

topic to discuss;

I hope I’ve not offended him

and caused a great big fuss . . .

 

“My body is to transform and I am to gain wings?”

What queer events this transformation does portend;

the loss of my feet and a cocoon,

yet I am exacitackly content with things as they stand.

I am to become something wholly different;

I don’t believe this other form shall prove a welcomed change,

for I am also expected to give up other aspects

all for a transformation I did not arrange.

My pipe, my favoured past time,

though I notice not the smell;

what will become of my many shoes?

It is a fret I cannot quell.

“Do tell me, what is so great

about the wonder of flying?

Is it so easy to keep your wings a-flap

or do you fret of dying?

And what will I do with my hookah?

It’s a favoured treasure to me!

Will I be able to still puff away?

I am waiting for you to tell me.”

 

I’m thinking that maybe I should not have spoken,

for that pipe of the caterpillar is one treasured token.

I’ve given him cause to fret and to worry;

a situation I must mend in a hurry.

I must find a way of selling these wings,

for flying is one of those magical things.

“Can you imagine being able to fly,

to be able to roam up free in the sky?

Being able to circle, to loop-the-loop,

to descend on the flowers and their fragrance scoop?”

I can see from his face that he’s not impressed,

too fond of possessions, his hookah, as stressed.

I’m wishing that I’d never drifted this way

for it’s too hard for me to think what to say.

 

“I cannot imagine flying,” I say to the butterfly,

“And my head already loops from the smoke I enjoy.

Is there a greater feeling than euphoria?

Tell me of the means you employ.”

The butterfly is quite clearly frazzled

its gaze darting from my pipe to my half-closed eyes,

always with exuberance it looks about,

is this demeanour flight’s prize?

I must say, its colour is not so distasteful,

though I’m rather happy with my skin a neon blue;

will I turn green like this nervous butterfly

or maintain my intended hue?

And what will I do if I am to change form,

what activity will take the stead

of reclining on my mushroom, toking from my pipe,

letting the euphoria fill my head?

“Perhaps, dear butterfly, we could switch roles

if only for an hour or two;

I wish to know what the fuss is about,

of this flying you’re so adamant I do.”

 

“I don’t think it is possible to do a little switch,”

he’s looking rather cross at me, I think I’m in a fix.

If only I had not got lost, I’d not be here at all

and heading for what’s certainly a conversation fall.

It’s not that I would not like to give him a taste of flight,

I’m sure that he would find it to be some sure delight.

As he is now he’d plummet, to the ground he’d drop,

as a caterpillar he’s too heavy, it would be a flop.

How can I explain it without causing some offence?

My wings are way too fragile, I know I’m making sense.

I’ve made him want to try it now, and the fault is mine;

I’m feeling so much guilt as though I’ve done a crime.

I’m going to have to say ‘goodbye’

and head back to the sky.

 

The butterfly does take off,

fluttering towards the sky;

it’s gone and left me rather curious,

of that I will not lie.

I want to know what it feels like to fly

I want to experience the thrill;

the thoughts the butterfly’s imparted

makes me unable to keep still.

“Wait!  Come back!”

I shout at the fluttering thing,

but it has fluttered too far away,

the sight of its flight imparts a sting.

I wish to discover the sensation of flight,

I wish to have my wings;

when shall this transformation commence?

When will I become one of those fluttering things?

There is little I can do now,

I must do my best to remain calm.

Several deep tokes of my hookah

and my mind’s adrift before long.

I lay here on my mushroom,

relaxed and listless like a stone,

daydreaming of a time to come

when I’ll be skyward prone.

 

 

Picture is 'Little Things' by Beeple.



© Copyright 2018 Jeff Bezaire. All rights reserved.

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