poetry

there ison the wings of the butterflyamemory

we write with our nails etching into the tree the names of our losses

ones tears are measures in accordance to the moons cycle

these are not yours.not for youtears I shed for youi buried in the rainmonsoon of the year gone by

is there a new me?i haven’t felt my atoms juggleor the breeze touch my facein years            that were so long

the fragility on the wings of a butterfly … that must be happinessorlike a moth carries death on its flight

from destroying my wretched being you have saved me d:self annihilation is a delicacyyou can’t order it off the menu

time living is not for you,dreamer –what do you do then?do you whimper and die?or recoil and fade?hide behind closed

hold yourself gentlyfragility caresses you

itenterswithout a warningpainhas its ownpresencei crumblein a heapbeggingrequestingurgentlyforthe emptyunalteredsky formercy