Brook Of Reflection

The Brook Of Reflection A thought, striking as a rare butterfly, sat on a twig tried to catch it but in my hand it turned into fluff, and I can no longer remember which colour it had. The thought was a river I cupped my hands tried to catch some wisdom, stem its flow and turn it into a poem that flies like a butterfly The rich are seen as successful and say banal things, newspapers print their moth eaten views, we read and thoughtlessly nod; so find me a new river then. I wait for another thought, one that floats, like leaf of fall in a brook, and tells of eternal truths that are as beautiful as rare butterflies