Awful
Black butterfly,
Lacking even the blue dots,
worn upon the wings
ripped off by smiling children at play
I dwell in the shadows of low light
I'm forlorn and forbidden
Alone
My feast,
contains saline and salty tears
Unloved
Grasped by unpoetic hands in the stillness of midnight
No matter how pretty
How soft
What expensive things I decorate my unholy self with
I dwell alone
One of many
Forlorn, forbidden things

Does the Butterfly look to the past
know of a time it was something else
completely transformed I think not.

this is poetry forever on repeat
a six mile drive to our one and only shop

they don't sell alcohol until past ten am
its 6am and I'm all out of smokes

all along the shore road
and its officially Summer (yeah)

so its going to be 24 miles
two trips(but at least its Summer yeah)

one for the smokes and food
then back again after ten for the wine.