The sharp scratch on paper of pen and ink,
Alluring like the old feathery quills,
That call’s the writer’s mind to gently think,
As on Earth the inconsistent moon spills.
There softly fluttering wings echo around,
Repeating the whispers of ancient twilight,
The writer recalls another lost sound,
Once heard long ago on a summer’s night.
The velvet wings that shone of arcane blue,
Reflecting dreams of magical sojourns,
Distant memories now clearly in view,
As if those old days could simply return.
The moonlit butterfly opened the eye,
By taking the moment to simply fly.
Form: English Sonnet