Sometimes I just sit and stare;
outside the window birds fly high.
Up to the skies where they belong
not in the cage to be admired by none.
A pinned butterfly in pretty shades of pink—
glitters of blue-black darkening its pitiful wings
and it couldn't ask for help.
It knew its end was near and decided
to just give in to be frayed upon in death.
Like a cage which doors were opened,
the cave's last light beamed in the far end sky.
There was hope…
and there it goes, washed away by the shore—
will we ever get it back, we wonder as our
pleads and prayers turn into screams.
Watching the last orangey-red sunset,
the sun's way of blessing the poor—
we found the hope we thought we had, fade away.
Nothing was for all but one,
that hope has always been within
our hearts, soul, and it never dries up.
It always comes back, like how the sun sets and rises.