sometimes things that are so amazing, so wonderful…
can confuse me.
the emotions fog up the window
          (my brain is clouded with thoughts)
when the fog clears, there are beautiful
blue butterflies flying around
          (um...how’d they get there.).
that’s what confuses me.
could those be the same butterflies
from my stomach that
          makes me nervous around you.
or are they a pigment of my imaginations,
feelings that aren’t true and made up.
(a soft warning of pain to come)
(an assurance of how beautiful i really am)
(a demon ready to devour me)
what is it.
i name this little blue—
confusion.
she’s beautiful but quiet.
maybe i need her company.
eventually the truth will hit her
instead of hitting the window
          (my brain is a pane of glass).
you can leave this dungeon, papillon.
fly! fly away with your gratefulness!
be free!
          (my imagination runs wild
          like these butterflies)
freedom awaits.

a liar in love
a crow in the cold
beginnings ascend
from the carcass of folly
what remains is the will
what survives is what
was there all along
courage is knowing

Naître avec le printemps, mourir avec les roses,
Sur l'aile du zéphyr nager dans un ciel pur,
Balancé sur le sein des fleurs à peine écloses,
S'enivrer de parfums, de lumière et d'azur,
Secouant, jeune encor, la poudre de ses ailes,
S'envoler comme un souffle aux voûtes éternelles,
Voilà du papillon le destin enchanté !
Il ressemble au désir, qui jamais ne se pose,
Et sans se satisfaire, effleurant toute chose,
Retourne enfin au ciel chercher la volupté !

Fable IV, Livre IV.

À mes enfants.


Du printemps la fille vermeille,
La rose ne vit qu'un moment,
Dont le papillon et l'abeille
Profitent bien différemment.
Gaspillant, comme un fou, les biens qu'on lui prodigue
Tandis que l'insecte léger,
Chenille un jour avant, funeste au potager,
En stériles baisers sur la fleur se fatigue,
L'abeille y puise l'or qu'attendent ses rayons,
L'or qui doit la nourrir dans sa maison bien close,
Longtemps après le jour fatal aux papillons,
Où l'on voit se faner la rose.

Au travail, mes enfants, accordez une part
Dans les jours de votre jeunesse :
Tout donner au plaisir n'est pas de la sagesse ;
Tel qui pense autrement, même avant la vieillesse,
S'en repentira, mais trop ****.

You won't remember me

A little white shadow of the heart

Who in adulation of wonder

Became une éternité de papillon

perhaps *******
are unaware of themselves
until they blossom at the touch of
the cold
or
hungry hands
mapping
the topography of skin. perhaps
they wait
for lips and ivory teeth
to explain every pregnant
pause in your touch;
each time we undress our bodies
are new again.
we emerge
from the cocoon of bedlinens
coloured and crumpled and
left to dry in the sun.

Dessine moi des souvenirs biasés.
Je ne serai jamais capable de témoigner un coucher de soleil avec toi, car c'est en ce moment même que le jolie papillon aux ailes pointillés vient se poser sur mes yeux pour m'aveugler.

Les étoiles scintillent.
La lune s'élargit pour se rapetisser.
Les nuages tracent des formes dans l'obscurité.
Et tout est beau.
Toi. Moi. Et le papillon.
Le noir m'appartient.
Le papillon le crée et toi tu en fais partie.

--------------------

Draw me biased memories.
I will never be able to witness a sunset with you, because it is at this moment that the beautiful dotted winged butterfly comes to blind my eyes.

The stars sparkle.
The moon expands to shrink again.
The clouds draw shapes in the dark.
And everything is beautiful.
You. I. And the butterfly.
The dark belongs to me.
The butterfly created it and you are a part of it.



- LynnAA

She, —
lace papillon
who sits motionless
behind the
glass.
Perched atop
lacuna wire,
ran through wings
handled by
gears.
I lift her glass
confinement
and
I touch her while
she's still. Clock-
work ballerina;
lifeless
until I wind
her up...
I let her
go on. "La danse!"
Create
steam halos
as you
twirl into
the night where
envious moths
tap the window
above
my bed.
------------------------
Papillon — French. Meaning "butterfly."
La danse — French. Meaning "The dance."

Thorefin,
Therifen,
Theraphin,
Raven Angel.
I do not expect
you to undestand.

I am he.
He is me.
She are we.
We are thee,
And there are more.
I do not think
This is something
Ordinary men conceive.

All the paintings of darkness
Are not to impress upon the critics
The level of my shallow depth,
Nor are my phrasings for the sake of vanity.

It is the darkness that gives lessons to the light, of things that I am not afraid to learn.

Like a papillon in a  season of change,
I am transformed into a dark lamp,
For I  have stood in many shadows.

I have soaked up the knowledge.

In my shadow,
Illumination awaits.

for a healing
we gathered
small things

you'd gotten the idea
to bring a paper mâché butterfly

once it was dry-
 holding it above your head
 as if the butterfly mantra wasn't
 at the lip of some rogue amaranth-

you opened your mouth
but nothing
 sound
happened

a halo mocking 
the bitterfly saint

droop-wings of
soda pop bottle shards
plastic coated
paper clips jabbed
in for antennas


later we released 
a pinprick pine spark
toward an indifferent moon

I, in my cocoon,
Shall become a butterfly,
Then spread rainbow wings.