She is made from books and butterflies

She is made from things tucked away into fairytales.

Things lost in fables and folklore of long ago.

In sleety forests where in the company of kind dwarves, forest wolves, and mothergoats, winter roses
bowed before the crescent moon to bid their fond farewells.

In a sanctuary of talking animals, the mouse queen, 

and a honored polar bear ice king.

In a place where lovestruck fools, and men with blue beards, would gather beneath a fluttering, winged-horse sky.

A time when a princess would find herself lost in sleep for a hundred years

A time for imperium silver crystals, and dark-sparkled curiosities.

Beyond the black rainbows, to a place of respite, where the spirit is swallowed up in reading books,

and can safely drown in a sea of prose and poetry.

And only the butterfly knows truth and virtue, for her wings are transparent,
as she drinks from the tips of flowers,
and views the world through kaleiodoscopic eyes.

Before long, she'll arise from the lavender dust

with wings of gold to carry her through the hurricane waters.

...and she shall have the steadfastness to know,

the only sounds that can come from a cage of butterflies, are the squawks of sorrow.

all images copyright of Kirsty Mitchell Photography

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