A thick mist twists about my childhood,
when it all seemed so much simpler.

Mammoth butterflies tickle
my imagination, I sit and wonder
at the minute grains of sand
cascading from my palms,
the naïve pleasure it once rendered.

These men are chasing dreams
on the backs of butterflies.

Soft driven airstrips blow away,
I have little expectation left to fly.

My mother used to tell me
I could do anything I wanted,
I would sign my name on the clouds
but I have no strength left to leave the ground,
time has left me reaching.

My sand has dwindled.
The butterflies have drifted away.

-*BRD