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May 2014
Your mica eyes
****** their sinister gaze--
Grim and glowering--
Gouging into gaping heart-wounds
To commence continuous fresh ooze
Dripping from festering, unhealed centers.

Your darkened desires
Derive insidious pleasures
Watching the writhing and wasting--
The squirming of my weakening spirit;
You grin at the gruesome handi-work
Of your impaled butterfly.

The brilliant brevity
Of my soul's prismatic patterns,
Exsanguinates in frantic, futile beatings
With shredded, useless wings--
Faint flutterings fade into memories;
Anguish appeases from silent screams
To inevitable fatal numbing....

                                ( Release me--
                                   P L E A S E--
                                    I need to soar!)
For what are we if our very souls be held captive...we are as an impaled butterfly---unable to soar, our spirit weakens, and dies....
Celtic Lass
Written by
Celtic Lass  USA
(USA)   
500
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