Butterfly Dreams


Lake Oswego, United States

  • Available
  • Artist

Wall Art

Home Decor



Artist's Description

I flew on the wings of a butterfly Through a dream of such beauty, That my soul called out in a cry, How can such joy truly be? How can these little wings still fly Me on my long journey to eternity? Who said this flight was to eternity? A weary voice whispered from the butterfly. Why would you assume I could fly You so far strictly on my presumed beauty? With the burden on your heart, how could it be? Then I fell awake, and I began to cry. Not for me, but for the dust on my pillow I cry; The dust of time, fallen from wings too young for eternity I mourn for the impossibility that I dreamed to be& For there is no power in the wings of a butterfly, Only the magic built of delicate beauty, And the pixie dust that lets her fly. In my dream she asked Why is it, to there you wish me to fly? As she looked back, with Egyptian designed eyes about to cry. Can we not just stop and admire natures beauty? Why must you look so closely at eternity? My broken heart then new, this dream, this butterfly, Could not endure the journey to where I needed to be. A force of nature, springs dancing beauty she needed to be; Free to circle the flowering life in a world where she could fly And be admired as youths symbolic butterfly; Causing young men to seek her, and old men to cry For the impossible flight together to eternity; For the survival, beyond time, of such magical beauty. When spring has passed, and winter knocks, what of beauty? The pages turn in the story to reach where the end must be, And beyond dreams, and the closed wings, rests eternity, Where pixie dusted wings and dreams may never fly Beyond the world where broken hearted tears may cry For the loss of a dream shed, as dust, from the wings of a butterfly. The butterfly has moved on, as it was destined to be. Now only a memory, her beauty rides upon my wings as I fly To reach my journeys end; to cry for joy as I view, the butterflies that fill my eternity. poem by Thomas Watson

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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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