The Butterflies’ Graveyard

The voices whisper,
like the sound of butterfly wings,
swept up in a storm.

Hushed,
the fear of being too loud,
the sound of thousands,
shaking, in silence,
murmuring folk,
half the earth blown away.

Intoxicated,
I pour red wine upon white wings,
crush hues of yellow between my palms,
paint my face in colored dust,
revile in death,
a beauty undiminished.

Senseless, upon the sod,
emblazoned,
my breath disturbs their stillness.

The legions,
flightless on their own,
live once more,
if only in illusion.

Oblivion their realm,
Clothed in butterfly wings,

I have become their King.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under outlaw poetry, poem, poetry, Short stories and essays, writing

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s