Friday, December 11, 2009

Never Cared Much For Butterflies Before

You’re incised upon a desk adorned with butterflies
Whose incessant non-flaps send shrill cries. Across
From one another, they the other you the wind, Me
The black markings imposed on a saturated wing,
Paper thin, torn from presses, pressed by machines,
An assembly line designed to push them out quicker
Than a cesarean king. Two about the lampshade,
One dangles from the wall, you, a gold crest etched,
Floats above them all. Out the hollow window, into
The darkest night, you and every décor exits from my life.

1 comment:

  1. Aw damn. I really enjoyed this. The layout and the buried rhyme made my second and third read-through really exciting. It's rare that I get excited about rhyming anymore - a mistake for sure on my behalf. Thanks for this.