When morning comes,
She looks up to the layers of stretched skies;
And a future
Of butterflies,
Weaved about a roaming sun,
Ticking of tens of multitudes of things to be done;
And she hopes of a day without clambering for air;
Roads she has dreamed off climbed from beneath her feet.
Life, she says, is the wind of sardonic rustlings;
It breathes contempt.
Her passion is mounted as windbreaks,
And she says she sucks that contempt up her nostril.
It’s voice is a hoarse stampede;
Like the sound of many seas knocking at the continental doors, all at once.
She says she sits on the beach,
Wading her arms and body through the storm.
The sound weakens the strenght of her touch.
Lungs are a tricky thing, deeper than the mind-
For hope kindles on air, and air is nothing,
And lungs must drink air like mouth to water.
She dreams,
Tottering, of her madness, into Its scramble of forceful hands.
Life is the stomach of unforgiving greed,
As she is her lungs- mad enough to digest rushing air.
She is the butterfly,
Reaching for migratory nectar,
Atop petals in agreement with the wind.
When dusk calls,
Laying a blanket over the sun to sleep,
She embraces the warmth of her pillow,
And arrays fresh roads, of butterflies, in her dreams.
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