the potrait: a poem

A poem

I found myself staring at the painting

Half made, half unmade

A single splotch of blue amidst

a black shady landscape

people didn't get it, most walked

Past, some grumbled

 about the inadequacy

Of the picture, some 

looked closer to comprehend

 its intent meaning, 

shook their heads 

in resignation 

and walked about,

 looking for other

 meaningful portraits

While I just stood there, 

staring at the 

black canvas

Hidden in it's depths

 is a tiny butterfly

So tiny, as not conspicuous 

to a fleeting eye

ensnared in a web of blue

Its wings outstretched 

as if she's reaching for freedom 

On the very edge of the blue patch

So close, yet distant

Yet it kept trying, wings ripped

As it tethered on the 

periphery of captivity

Towards a distant star embedded

In the pitch dark landscape

I was momentarily stunned, 

captivated by the

 rawness of the potrait

I idly wondered if this is 

how the painter

must have felt like

A failing attempt of liberation

Desperate to be free again

I wondered if the butterfly 

could have been once real, 

for how similar it felt,

 like a long lost dream

for it could have once embodied me

By

Iniya prakasha

.