On the day I wrote this, I had a heavy weighing feeling deep down in my guts. Instead of it dragging me down, I tried changing it into something written.
I wasn't surprised to later find out that the gloomy, encaging feeling in the end seemed to have good reason. I even laughed at how fitting some instances were... Right.The Butterfly's Dream II
(16. December 2009)
I don’t want this churning burning
that in my bowels keeps on turning,
charing and torching the feelings within.
The shriveled corpses of gargoyles grin
at the remnants of a battered butterfly
that with wings of silvermoons tried to defy
the dark sun that petrified its heart
with the cold warmth they call atrocity’s spark.
Here I am, seeing with blinded blue eyes,
ears pried open to inperceivable cries
of ruby cascades raging downwards in sorrow
for borrowed wings that’ll fail to see the morrow.
An elegy sings “there’s too much of too little time”
as mouthes repeat the callous course of the crime
and the dead butterfly dreams of the light,
inflamed and drowned by its own desire’s night.Poem archive