When I was young, I dreamed of butterflies.

Light radiated off their delicate wings,

And flowers bloomed at their tiny feet.

They had the power to soothe soft cries.

When I was young, I dreamed to flowers,

Delicate beautiful petals that supported each butterfly.

The flowers were wilting but then the butterflies flew,

And they bounced back, swaying in the wind.

When I got a bit older, I dreamed not of swaying flowers,

But of wilting ones.

I dreamed of a hot hot day, with sun rays beating down at the petals

And dried up the leaves, leaving shrivelled messes behind.

There were no butterflies in that dream.

Now I don't dream, at least not of flowers or butterflies.

I dream of steel behemoths scraping at the sky,

I dream of acrid smoke spewing from exhaust pipes,

I dream of a weary life, governed by the next thing on the list.

But sometimes, I catch a glimpse of green,

A flutter of iridescent wings,

Flitting somewhere in the corner of my eyes,

Investigating a swaying dandelion.

Sometimes I reach out, looking around,

Searching every nook and dirty cranny.

But I see mouldering scraps of food,

And dull grey concrete.

I feel like I am led by a string,

Forced forward by lists and quotas,

Enticed by vague promises and struck by moving shadows.

But I can't find them and they can't find me.

So I spend every day, chasing those wings,

Chasing the whisper of nostalgia,

The face of promise and the scent of gardens.

Every day I plod along, and occasionally chase butterflies.