Redemption (sonnet)

Without the invention of spies
Bred by beady rats and uptight mice
We would not see the cries
Of the cocooned butterfly; enticing
And nesting quietly with beauty
Concealing itself, it's naked self -
From the moody
World outside that shelf
Of the proverbial sunset
And the stomping rain,
Of the inhabitants that let
Each day pass in vain.
For the cries of the hidden
Can now be forgiven.