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.
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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.
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