A late resolution

2016 was a disappointing year. All of it was my fault for wasting my time on unnecessary distractions, doing little progress on what I was supposed to do.
A year has passed once again, and my life hasn't changed in the slightest. That book I've been working on, a story that I've been dying to put down in writing is postponed again for one more year.
It's not like I'm doing much with life, or for my parents, or my friends, or anybody, living my live in solitary inside the room, going out in the morning for work, just as much as necessary to have the time passed and then back into the room doing nothing but wasting my time.
Maybe I've been dreaming too high. I thought I'd write a hit novel and make a living out of it, but it's not going to happen at this rate. The best I could do is treating this project as a side hobby, but do it passionately every day, without much an expectation of success.
Little by little, maybe, one time or another, I'd made something.
Like this little poem, perhaps, that I came up with after being stuck in a long avoided inner debate on the core of my story, the core that has been changing in those unproductive years.
Hopefully, it will be a mark of something.

Withered

It was the day the monsoon came,
The first drop of rain fell after one long summer,
And the day that person arrived,
A sight forgotten,
After four long years of forever,
Of not knowing, of not seeing,
Of not being there,
Like a bud of flower that blossomed,
Was a strange small presence that brightened that dark rainy day,
Different yet still the same,
An unmistakable sweet voice,
A bright innocent smile,
A full range of colour and scents,
From infrared toward ultraviolet,
From sweet back to sweet,
That perfect combination of traits,
Of which no butterfly would resist,
And the one that came, the one it was waiting for,
Was a butterfly with perfect wings,
Like a rainbow on the sky after a rainy day,
Effortlessly dancing around that flower, happy to see its fated bloom,
Not the one that broke away from its cocoons,
Tearing its wings apart in rush,
Limping about in vain, blinded, aimless,
Straying far away, far too long,
Already tired and grounded,
As it watched the dark cloud cleared up,
Only above the small bright flower and the rainbow colored butterfly,
Its own patch of the sky, however,
Darkened, and no more.