On the Nature of the Butterfly

These winds of a thousand cascading leaves carry me away...

The strangled melody of childless mothers beats my wings;

To be born in the heart of horns, floating like feathers

In an orchestra for none to hear but the lovers

Who find themselves alone, submerged,

With no prudent sense of eternity;

Immersed within obscurity.

That which was lost,

Again found in innocence,

Dressed in a veil of wistful longing;

Indeed, nothing more innocent than home

Has ever permeated Elysium since the flooding

That consumed Asphodel and the Lethe by its roots.

As I follow the dreary march of brass hearts and hammers

To a home that I never truly discerned from the old photographs,

And the stones that blocked the interminable flaming bellows

Whose embers danced alight upon my fire-forged face

Keeping pace with those ceaselessly homesick,

For a stone thrown into a well of despair

Shalt never seek its own liberation;

The kite propelled by current

Flies beyond the grave