not much more
than a metaphor
as a butterfly flap
is a windstorm.

In trying to pick out a pattern in chaos,
I found neither symmetry nor direction.
It just was- and that's all it needed to be,
Unadulterated.
Speculation free.

No rhythm, no purpose, no agenda.
Just pure chaotic goodness straight from a sourceless chasm

To even attempt to decipher the endless web of desires,
of sorrows, or fleeting wonder- is to attempt to unravel the spider's web by speaking it. It is to sing down the moon.
It cannot be done- but there is no harm in trying.

A void frame holds together Black Mountainous clouds weighing heavy on the sky, fearing an inescapable storm. The land below, no longer recognizable for shadows have rained from the absence, eroding the clarity of which once stood firm.
Still fresh and raw, the painter stops. His garrisoned red eyes entrench the being of his grotesque creation and with lost hope takes his final brushstroke. The brush, with nothing more to give, lifts an unsubstantial bit paint off of the canvas. Leaving what appears to be, a negative silhouette. The white void of a butterfly.