Self-Portrait

Sunday

17 dead butterflies and a baby in the womb.


The butterflies awoke me early this morning - so early the world was still asleep under it's blanket of darkness, so early that I could still taste the party four hours ago. It tasted like heroin and unknown familiarity - qualia?
They flutter their diaphonous pages of wings insistently, demanding I awake my ears to the news they have been crafting for several months now.
The beating of their wings sends mellifluous, lyrical vibrations into my soul; they seem to sing about a caterpillar enclosed in his coffin of a chrysalis, who's just dying to meet me...
I swallow them back down so I can't hear their threats - the taste of thyme and rust slides down my throat, as I begin to digest the news: how shall I choose to interpret it?
Do I accept this cadaverous newcomer and welcome what fortune he may bring - or do I remove the foetal corpse from the chrysalis so that I may find shelter there?

No comments:

Post a Comment

Write me something pretty.