.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)

It all starts with a worm.

Not a worm but a caterpillar,
though much like a worm;
the first burst of cries
after a long night
yelling ‘push!’,
a round face and soft pink lips
honey-brown skin
and wisps of hair curling at the crown.

Papillon her mother said,
cradling the fruit of her labor.

Like all good things,
the worm must be passed through fire for strength.

Papillon lived in a
world with no papa
where mama was never home
but worked to the bone
where one day she was suddenly all alone.

Mama had overworked.

They dressed baby in black
and told her not to cry
where was mama going?
and why?
it wasn’t until years later that Papillon understood death.

Death. That state a caterpillar must face to emerge a butterfly.
Death…that gleam in the eyes of every man she kept company.
Death that song forcing her to dance to another tragic melody.
Death, that black dress she wore to capture lust in many.
Death: her decision to break free from her cocoon’s captivity,

the thick red rolling down her arms,
the lifeless body of her tormentor laying on the ground.
a bloodied knife in hand.

She had never felt so beautiful.