Sta.sh
I.
You had a butterfly’s wings…
And each ink stained pattern wound itself around you
Bleeding into blacks and yellows, till the winds were forced
To lift you up and sweep you away into springtide.
II.
Each of your words stitched themselves
Into the lining of your emerald chrysalis,
Whispering false nothings so you could never
Return, never take it all back.
III.
Heaven never told you that winter fell
Under an open sky that you had written your heart into
Where each drop of white ink tattered the gossamer
Threads where you had left your name.
IV.
And even now as the feathers fall around you
Laughing at the plight of powdered silken dreams
And the dance of distant, sun-blind shadows,
You found your solace in the lonely morning.
And called it peace.
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