One, from time to time,
may feel that love is just like
the butterfly room;
one may like the way
enter into its softness
first, for the tiny,
unfurling wings' touch
fondles tenderly, gently.
But there comes a time,
when one may find that
these wings are made of razors;
circling, whirling one
all over engraved
by both the sin of the flesh
and the crime of heart,
writing into one's
helpless skin, that cannot be
shed ever again.
With engraved letters,
scribing meticulously,
and bathes every page
in the ink of love,
giving birth to the story
of pain, the story of us.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 7:12 AM UTC
One, from time to time,
may feel that love is just like
the butterfly room;
one may like the way
enter into its softness
first, for the tiny,
unfurling wings' touch
fondles tenderly, gently.
But there comes a time,
when one may find that
these wings are made of razors;
circling, whirling one
all over engraved
by both the sin of the flesh
and the crime of heart,
writing into one's
helpless skin, that cannot be
shed ever again.
With engraved letters,
scribing meticulously,
and bathes every page
in the ink of love,
giving birth to the story
of pain, the story of us.
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