She doesn’t know, they say,
Then the evil, debilitating laughter,
Followed by a wicked smirk.
I do know, I say.
Then I go trail the woods,
Looking for that furtive moment,
When a larva dares to become a butterfly,
I kiss it gently and whisper in its ears,
Fly high my precious little darling,
Do not let your fragile wings stop you.
So I do know, I say,
But not the way you know this world.