Thursday, March 26, 2009

Pilgrimage of the Monarch.

With a flutter
so delicate,
residue remains.
An iridescent powder
dusts my insides.
Their friable wings once tickled
but now instead they chaff.
And the powder brought
But now it infects.
All that made me smile
leaves blisters
on the fragile membrane.
A plague on my insides.
I cannot stop the havoc
they wreak.
It is impossible.
For tearing into illusions,
is like tearing into clouds.
An invisible swarm
yields tangible damage.
Butterflies, why won't you let me be?

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