BUTTERFLIES DIE AS EASY AS WOOD
Deck the halls in silent whispers,
in patch work elegance,
Fore the pinnacle in passion arrives
and floats like concrete.
Her serrated tongue -
a blessing born of ghosts
unto this accident.
Wile, to blemish the gloss
of our comfortable life,
Our dancing curses
and an untangible affection
towards ‘kicking and screaming’.
She peels back the torn flesh
to reveal their reflection,
yet the scribes denounce,
denounce the frail blind harpies.
Ravishing are they,
of whom she tears the harp from,
while helpless bards tune ticking hearts
to standard…
An eternal struggle of promised,
defaced repetition.
And though she thrashes
for the atrocities to materialize,
for the summonings to attribute
a dynasty to her spilling love,
They craft quills from the purest of unborn innocence -
Drain ink from valves -
arteries raped modestly.
Etching soft horrors
of an exposed callous,
in ones fanatical birth of ambition;
Parchment drowned in the script
of the remains of grace;
an abbreviation of the shimmering moon -
glorious, as the rose bud beckons her fragrance.
Beguiled by the guise of a thief’s beliefs,
we pale and stretch skin over shattered bones.
Lewis Dalton
