This poem,
a butterfly on paper
waiting on a voice to come and kill it;

to rip it silent,
from the page and freeing fingers
fling it to the night then deftly gut and fillet.

It goes,
this impermanence of speech,
which grabs a scratch and wrings it to a howl

and echoes
out and dies whilst forging memories
and leave to trust that understanding lingers

The bravery
required to sculpt your soul out,
and lay it on the gravestone paper white.

Then have some
ghoul come reading for a minute…
Pray god they see your soul and read you write!


2 thoughts on “Butterflies

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