Ode To A Butterfly.

She sits too close for comfort
to academics feigning brains,
books butterflied before them,
spines still unbent.
Pages yet unborn.

A Parkinsonian tremor,
misplaced on one so young, like
the tooth in its keyboard mouth.
Awaiting extraction from
an ebony loneliness.

She glances over, silent wish
held behind glazed eyes,
that her life could have been Keats,
rather than Tennents,
super strength.