Friday 16 July 2010

Butterfly lost.

A delicate, translucent thing.
It's easier this way.
The reality causes sickness;
a hurt that makes me sob.
She's trapped.
Between the fingers of her lovers.
Against the window;
one, two, three, on and on.
A desperate fluttering against the pane.
Damage done to soft, soft wings.
It hurts but it alleviates.
In that tiny body is a burden;
fear, worry, fear.
And this is my terror:
I cannot cup my hands around her.
Stop her. Carry her to safety.
Small, fragile and broken.
A delicate, translucent thing.
It's easier this way.

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