The Butterflies’ Graveyard

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

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

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,
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.


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

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