Migration

By Keerthana K

I told the butterflies on the way back home about myself.

The beautiful winged creatures fluttering about

Happen to be the only source of colour, along with the sky,

On the path that I take to reach home.

I told them about the scar I had on my back,

From when I fell trying to ride my bike as a child—

The way it bothered me though I couldn’t see it,

Even if I twisted before the mirror.

They stopped briefly, and one placed itself on the crease of my hair.

Then it flew away,

Following the ones that migrated before.

The path ahead once consisted of flowers, trees,

And fireflies that visited at dusk.

The sky always had rainbows,

Little bunnies running around in their paradise.

The sky is now bright blue, which will soon turn grey.

No life will ever dare to cross this path.

Now I must await the last butterflies to make their exit

Every single day I pass.

By Keerthana K