by Nick Gisburne
I don’t know why your butterflies are dead.
Your tragedy, your mourning, is not mine.
Be thankful that whatever dreams they bled
Will never steal the starlight of your shine.
The silver in the stitches of your soul
Is coloured by the psychedelic stain
Of butterflies, bewitched to claim control,
To permeate your purity with pain.
Their broken bodies, littering the floor,
Are tainted with malevolent disease.
Without their poison, perfect, you will soar,
But still you seek them, pleading, on your knees.
Your butterflies abandon you. Go on.
Their colours and their cruelty are gone.
