Butterfly conspiracies

Interminable unfurling,
the empty husk still clinging
to the temporal edifice;
waiting for the liquid
veins to congeal and
extend, fanning out the
papery hue-filled wings.
The cobalt space gathers
florescence to explore,
rainbows to belay.

In the final hour of
metamorphosis, the
anticipation is sharpest,
cutting through the
remnants of our hopes,
razors skimming across
the rind’s outer layers.
Errant breezes flicker
the emergent projections,
stridently questing.

It’s what we don’t get
enough of that drives
our lusts; desperately
striving to break our hearts.
Perspective convergences
flaunt our limitations,
our eagerness to underscore
and vivisection our lives.
It is not as if the struggle
has made us any stronger.

Comprehending these
novel sensations, realizing
that we have just attained
another rung of vulnerability.
Invited more catastrophe
into our world, opened up
our hearts, stilled the
criticisms. And for what?
More tears shed while lunging
forward, the scenery blurring.

This yearning permeates us,
transfixes the clarity while
the conflagration, the holy fire
of passion, encompasses.
Insolent in our radiance,
we brandish our aspirations,
forgetful of the yawning pit
ready to drag us downwards.
If this burning does not cease,
we shall all be ashes soon.


© 2000 Melissa Songer