words [poem]

I am a qualia hunter; and words are my net.

I swing and grasp, straining to find the perfect sentence.
Such that I can explain ‘this’.
‘This’ to the person opposite me.

But the butterflies are slippery
dissolving effortless through the net.
Refusing to be bound.

Their joyful laughter fills the air as hunters rush round
Trying to create a lake out of a river.

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem.
But I realised that the world had already written it.