Tag Archives: butterflies

Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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Hidden Little Monsters

There’s a wicked witch brewing green poison inside my heart asunder

And inside my mind; a raging creature roars, and shadows slither black

But I could easily say that the greatest residing incorporeal monster

Would have to be the fluttering pink butterflies dancing inside my stomach.

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Crimson Butterflies

Fluttering like liquid ruby, their exquisite fragile wings

A lace of glimmers as they rush along, weaving tales, spinning

Amongst the trail of stars and abstract purple fleur-de-lis

Not at all lost, but wandering; uncurious, but wondering

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These abstruse monarchial creatures set my soul in sole volition

When I’m torn between rebuilding hope and complete demolition

For who’d paint such a bold daring colour of danger and bloody ties

On the aesthetic likes of a delicate, innocent, little butterfly?

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Standing beneath the skies dominated by a void of deepest onyx

With only scarlet specks to lead me on a life to desecrate and fix

These kaleidoscope of crimson butterflies will surely set me apart

I can only hope that one of them chances to land in my heart.

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Filed under Poetry