The Year the Butterfly Was Mine

All writers and poets have their favorite pieces. This here one is mine...


In a forgotten lazy junkyard
I saw him
Kicking empty cans with an agitated foot
Though we shared the same pair of eyes
He couldn’t see beyond the rage
That was badgering his mind
I remember his mother telling him
Son, it’s time you put away the gun
He stormed out the house, ran as fast as he could
Until he couldn’t anymore

The year the butterfly was mine…

He was a victim of circumstances
His old man died before he even knew him
He went on a mission
Crashing in and out of people’s lives
Too jaded to see his higher side
There were tell tale signs
Of a famous story waiting to be told
Iron bars would test his might
But that was how he found my name

The year the butterfly was mine...

In time, I’d wait for as long as he let me
As his questions became my answers
His eyes tired, but mine wide open
For the life he never had
So we took our last kick into the dusty air
Before the years began to gray
I still remember that wounded little boy
And the man who saved his life

The year the butterfly was mine…


From my book of poems, The Dredlocks Tree (2008)