The pimpled butterfly i echoed. it traveled miles and miles far away that my memory was led to rest. I had watched it fly around my window every morning, every night dancing through the sound of my melodious whistles.  It would ease the pain to forget- I said, for it would never return. This Freedom was a choice it made, to conquer the world.

The taxi man smiled at me, his eyes bulging out from the cone shaped mirror as he tried to look at what he had carried. The car still in motion. like sarcasm to an overgrown folly his ears had been condition to, he whispered slowly, nice story lad and so what happen to the butterfly?

Through thick and thin it flew. The rain drops of the Asian sky's would leave tiny spot on its wings, but it still looked beautiful. on the in and out, Wherever it went, It looked beautiful even now in my memory.

On this journey It would drink through peaceful stream of mountain tops, fresh that it kept it soul alive till advent. Finally It was home. Home where the green would meet the sea. Home where the crickets of the night sang beautiful songs through dusk.

I closed my eyes and the memory of music, of dance, of words spoken through departure came to light. When I open them to speak, he had stop the car, turning his face and looking at me in disbelieve, like this unknown passenger had turn into something else. Trans might be the word. I looked at him and continued.

Once upon a time I knew this butterfly. when it flew free in my very before, that it spread joy and sweetness like a honeycomb- that taste so sweet my imagination could burst in tears. But how it flew away that day, that I only dreamt, and hope.

What's the point, it's just a butterfly.

Well if you must know, there are candles in this world that do not need extinguishing. For the wax that falls from their frame, like tears that binds the wounds of others. Like this butterfly the world seas the light and relax the pain of life. The world feels the tear drops and receives healing. That's why it journeys.  

Ok..

Yes this butterfly may be on its way, might be on a journey but I have come to realize it journeys for that reason. To heal. There's a butterfly In my thought that I keep. The memory of its colors that spreads upon its feathers resides in the depth of my heart - for even this is a healing to my soul. I will wait, for I cherish this healing it pours to the world.

He opens the door of the taxi like a gentleman to a lady and tells me to my face.. Listen dude I don't know where your going or what your up to but this is where your journey ends. Take another taxi, you don't need to pay me. You are just too weird.  

The taxi was just two minutes away from my destination. All I had in my pocket was a hair band the shape of a butterfly

It lingers through, the colour thick and bold like a chocolate bar.
The colour of love, the colour of fear. This woman, the bearer, this captain, a magician in wait.

Her hair crowning every foundation that strengthens this force. Her words ready to come through this windows of might.
Her drink trembles at the sight of this bloodied mine, it leaves evidence of softly battle.

Blood stains.  

The bullet of seduction shares its damage to an unknown glass. Poor glass.

Man.. poor man.

You "fool" of expectation, look how beauty, look how confidence slays you through this table. It came with a smile and left you with a ****.
Red lipstick.

Donald

In-between these lines, We stand, dangling in the hopes that we do not fall to war. Our hands shaped in free  directions as Gunshots allures our senses. we are speechless, we are breaking.

This cold scenery tries to undo this patience, it calls it a fool for trashing the times. The lamp goes off and Mental fist connects. We are claps in chains once again.. Eye to eye, heart to heart, smirk to smirk, the storm lay in wait. If it blows we fall.

But we hold on to love- for even Wild winds, heavy storm, vicious as they come, non compare. Like fire to a candle light, you crumble this burning flame in me, I hope the same for you.

So I let my madness to rest, taming my claws and searching every corner of my heart for strength to overcome.  

I do not wish for war.. I choose my words to speak, for words are like land mines- how they destroy the fibers of the heart when spoken in bad, how they rebuild when left in good..

And you know for sure by now - of the devil and how he rooms in freedom, planting seeds in discord. You should know by now..

For In between this line when  you stand hands pointing at me, me at you. We will never go a distance. Tam your lights down low for I come in peace.

Donald

So these keys stare back at you in wonder, hoping that you punch them for words, that you make sense for good.

Breathless; the white lights spreads to your eyes finding tears with every blink, every second in every thought.

It strikes 3:30 to dawn and you ponder why the same. The hour, the muse, and the empty room full of darkness and silence..

You take lessons in fluster, hoping to conquer. It is not the same; no, not like yesterday. Today, right now Insomnia connects every piece of you with ease as trouble sits in-between smiling all through the dusk.

Donald

So this is where we all bag our little art, at the center point of everything we know. Our watch keeps ticking; it knows the rhythm of the times.

Smoking our pressures life to waste; we perch like eagles about to take flight. Our frame absorbs to the recycling of our thoughts and we take a stand, wired up like a telephone, wondering for far too long the keys to breaking an old cold.

The music plays through our soul but the ground stands firm before our eyes. You can tell we are sugar free of youthfulness; this mask is all we bear. Hiding under the fashions of mankind and hoping it quenches our thirst of turning back the times. So we sit on a wooden platform reminiscing the theater of friendship we built from our days.

Shades of canopies hover over our feeble bodies like toys on a tiny shelve; we know for sure we are done. Old glass case and a bracelet of hope, coffee for the soul and a pen for the go, we cap down these words on our books of gold. Verse by verse as we sat on smiling at the young arena, history is all we can tell.

Donald