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TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
Like caterpillars that rise
to the bliss of the blue skies
from the chrysalis of mortality
on the wings of the fairy butterflies,
we leave the shackles of your body
to embrace its kindred souls of dust, and
migrate to eternity’s solemn splendour.

Are we afraid?
are we afraid to explore the skies of eternity ?
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
To my good friend, Sue
Stay safe in your chrysalis
I'll be here waiting

Keep your mind on you
I'll stay true to the promise
to write for us both

You are not alone
You are a kind and sweet soul
So regenerate

In your chrysalis
I will await in its glow
and for it to crack

The winds will sing sweet
And the Northern Lights will dance
And you will emerge

Shining, born again
With strong, bright, velveteen wings
With love as armour

With all your wounds healed
And all your scars now faded
And we see you smile

I know you'll come through
People may have struck you down
But you weren't destroyed

To my good friend, Sue
My hand's on your chrysalis
Just know I am here
Again, this is for Sue.
Whatever she is going through I know she will come through.
Sue, if you're seeing this, know you can take as long as you like to heal
in your chrysalis.
Me and other people here on HP will continue to support you.
Always <3
Sending hugs your way!
Your good friend,
Lyn ***
I’ve been crawling,
Down in the dirt on my abdomen.
Looking for a tree branch,
To cling to,
To hang from upside down,
To take a step into the chrysalis,
To be born a new.

This skin I wear,
Encases me.
When I’ve moulted I will be free.
I will wiggle off the confounds of bone and flesh,
Of space and time,
Of birth and death.

I was once a baby larva,
Chewing on my birth leaf.
I was so small and hungry then;
But I have eaten enough leaves now.
It’s time to harden,
This soft skin.

When I pass through this knot,
In the infinite line of life.
I will squirm out of my biology,
Taking on a whole new body;
That’s beyond our senses,
Beyond our limitations,
Beyond our imaginations;
With nothing to gravitate towards.

The butterfly,
It calls to me,
My day is coming,
It will be free.
It’s been inside me,
Been here all along.
Waiting to break out.

I am not the skin I wear!
I am not the title I bear!

Bring me my wings!


Am I,
Just an isolated ray of sunshine?
Or am I,
The sun?

I don’t know...

Am I,
The things that I own?
Am I,
The thoughts that I think?
Am I,
Dumb, death or blind?
Am I,
Am I,
Just a little worm?


I am so much more!

I am, I am!

I tricked myself so long ago.
Thought of myself as just a catapillar.
This body is just an egg, that is about to hatch.
This realization is tethering around and crashing into me.
It has been circulating around me all along, but it is only hitting me now.

We’re all larva,
We all got butterflies inside of us.
Come and crawl with me,
Get down on your abdomen.
We’re all going to eat leaves,
Then we’re all going to find a tree;
To hang from upside down,
And set the butterfly free.
The precipice smells of gasoline;
perturbation proceeds the drop and I
am yet too sticky to fly.
On the verge of awakening,
the dark chrysalis has formed around me
in too-thick ropes of viscous feeling
and if I could but break through
the sun might once again
dry my wings.
And my hair became too much

It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks

By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair  
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair

everything and everyone became consumed.

In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa

It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.

everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa

During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.  

everything becomes consumed.
zuMee Aug 2018
Field of sun-flowers overhead:
The sparkling yellow grains
bursting out
from the stamens

A wind rises
The call to pollinate

I tuck myself
into a sheet-cocoon
fly upwards
out of the chrysalis.
Crawling. I've been crawling. Down in the dirt on my abdomen. Searching for a tree to cling to. To hang from upside down. To take a step into the chrysalis. To be born a new.
This skin I wear, encases me. When I've moulted I will be free. I will escape the confounds of bone and flesh. Of time and space. Of birth and death.
When I pass. When I pass through this knot. The knot in the infinite line of things. I will pass through biology, enter into a state beyond. Beyond our senses. Beyond our limitations. With nothing to gravitate towards.
The butterfly, it calls to me. My day is coming, it will be free.
It's been inside of me. Been here all along. Waiting to come out.
I am not the skin I wear. I am not the title I bear. I am, I am!
We're all larva. We all got butterflies inside of us. Come and crawl with me. Get down on your abdomen. We're gonna find a tree. To hang from, and set the butterfly free.
Terry O'Leary Sep 2014
Sweet Butterfly, with wings now dry 'tis time to break away
and light upon the leaves of dawn while weeping willows sway,
not reminisce 'bout chrysalis discarded yesterday,
but treasure life, with colors rife in nature's cabaret.

Sweet Butterfly, you sometimes sigh "terrene so strange and new”,
but take a chance, with winged expanse of fairy-like bijou,
to taste delight in random flight, to drift beyond the blue
and then collect her naked nectar, sipped in morning dew.

Sweet Butterfly, you question why the breeze is seldom soft
when swirling you, your wings askew, while floating free aloft.
Some seem to find their peace of mind believing gods have coughed,
but others, downed, have often found more freedom when they've scoffed.

Sweet Butterfly, you needn't cry, the fields are full of clover,
and meadowlands bare braided strands that winds in waves flow over -
but if you fear that, more than here, another mead is mauver,
just flutter by, beneath the sky, unfettered flitting rover.

Sweet Butterfly, farewell, goodbye, you've left this world behind.
I oft gaze back along the track of flowers that you've mined
recalling days of light sashays and movements unconfined
that complement the firmament where beauty lies enshrined.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Searching to find my place once again
     lost in this foreign state of happiness.
Left with no one to guide me…

I strive to pave my own way now;
     along new paths, unafraid.
I risk nothing,
     as most is lost.

I have left the old behind,
     bruised and bloodied.
For my heart has been at war;
     sanity at last has prevailed.

Amidst the bodies left behind,
     the old shells of who I once was,
transformed as if emerging from a chrysalis.
     A new life on the wing.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
PJ Poesy May 2016
Stars jostling whatever wishes
Nets cast upon heedless fishes
To do or not to do the dishes
Just is what is all this show biz

Putting flowers in a vase
Something that might give you pause
All that is and ever was
Much to much such harm caused

To be still and to never utter
Chrysalis' desire to ever flutter
Simple wanting and none the other
Bind a dream and watch it smother

How should Spring be so cruel?
Fledgling discarded as a fool
Not all adhere to golden rule
Who'll you'll find inferior saccule?
Feeling like out of place
Like a stranger in a stranger land
Recalling those days of salt
Our marks in the sand
Being washed away by the sea.

I exactly know how far we are
I can even count every single meter
Between my heart and yours
But i will never be able
To count my love for you.

As the days keep turning into nights
As the blossoms open into flowers
As the chrysalis transform into butterflies
As the winter leads his way to spring
I will keep this love for you.

I've been trying to find
The birth of my feeling
The death of it, but couldn't
As profound as the black endlessy
My gaze didn't find any beginning or end.

Some says that love is just a game
Merely a storm that temporarly mess you up
Abandoning you as it was just a dream
Pouring you with all the rain you needed
Leaving you with no more than just sickness.

But that wasn't you
Just like a shooting star from Aquariis
Bringer of changes, you catch me.
You're a girl that i can only meet
Once in a billion lifetimes.

I can even drown in a thousands of seas
But the fire burning for you
Will never weaken
It will only grow stronger
To keep me alive, to keep my heart beating.

As your eyes shine upon me
As your true smile light my darkest hours
As you sleep over my voice
As sure as i miss you
I will never go away.

I promise you.
I once wrote this for the one i love.
Are euphony
Of thought,
Of heart,
Of body,
Of the splendid,
Of the soul,

(Unbinding our once
Spectral Fates
          That spiraled down
The Keys of Life
Tainted by
The Greatest of Dissonance)

My Redolent Reverie,
Sweetened by
Mellifluous Nectar Tides
Of cherished moments
Steeped for eons
In our
Carnal yearnings
Are made anew
By the Cosmogonist’s Hands
Of Eternity

(O, for I
Doth doven the skies,
That the Incendiary Wings
Of the Auburn Pheonix
Imbue me
With the Souls Acquisition
Of Golden Pinions
                      Of the Thew of Vitality).

Captive visions,
Slumber in
My Azure Dreamer’s Chest
Engraved with
The Insignia of Archaic Fates
Upon it’s
Starry Epidermis
Till skies fall
To the Terrene
The Luminaries
Shall rest
The palms of my hands

(O, for then
This Juggernaut of a Man
That I am
Shall Effloresce
Ceasing to be
     That Loveless Sentinel,
The Guardian over
The Bastion Heart
He fathoms

.Ensorcelled Butterflies
Lovelit Lavender Light
Upon that
Astral Parcel,
Lulling my weary eyes
By the
Sovereignty of Monarchial Wings
Vanquishing the doubts
Once blurring
My Kaleidoscopic Dreams
(Life’s Iridescent Seal
Branded upon
My forehead
And etherealizing
My exhalations
                    Till crystalline)

My sullied heart
Pulses shadowed winds
(The Sweeping Gales of Solemnity)
Without the
Blissful Kiss of Cadence
Resonating an
Ebony surge
Than first octave tonality
Of abyssal timbre.

I beseech you,
Unfurl those forested eyes
My Desiderata Materialista,
That I may
Drinketh of your
Emerald Streams,
Ineffably Pristine.

(For then
I shall be
Spirited away
      To Eden,
My existence
     Shall become
Nirvanic Transcendence)

To pine is a pang,
To envisage
Is to breath.

Perhaps that
Is the only solace
My feeble soul
Can bear,
Without you.

By your alabaster skin
Vein my eyes
With luminescence.

With your tender caress
Saunter my
Voracious skin.

Weave my Chrysalis,
By your
Susurrant voice.

Cocoon me
In your
Flawless serenade,
That I metamorphose
Bearing the
Sacrosanct Wings of Phantasmagoria
The Melisma of Your Piety.

Pearlescent blood
Floweth within me,
Like baptismal rain,
As I muse
When you alight
Once more
In my Cosmos.

I am yours,
Floral Fallal.

~Our fears are the burdens
    Of the Vestige of the Past,
      A hollow cry
       That fights to exist
         In a zeitgeist
           That flowers
              Quicker than
                Our hearts know how to beat.
                     Unfurl your Gates
                           To the Arbiter of Fates,
                              Unearth the Hallowed Crystals
                                 Of your Garnetiferous Passion
                                    That takes shape
                                        Because you…

                               O, Stalwart Knight,
                                    You were cosmic
                                         Like myriad raindrops,
                                           Mystic echoes
                                              Emancipating­ your spirit
                                                 From the trepidation
                                                     ­    Of the mortal kind.

                                Evanesce,                       ­   
                                                  For to be Ephemeral                      
                                 ­                Means to conquer                                  
That Magisterial Oblivion.
                                                       ­     Se’lah.~
Hey guys! I've been doing a great deal of experimenting with my writing as of late. This piece is an embodiment of all the introspection, musings, tribulations, and heartbreaks I have experienced as of late. I hope you all can appreciate this piece despite the quasi-obscurant references that I present bereft of explicit detail.

The core of this piece lies in the fundamental nature of our dreams, yearnings, and aspirations (as well as the shadows born of the loveless blight). It effloresced it something much greater as I continued to refine it. Hope you guys like! God bless!
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
My Court is a battle
As a Queen, I will endure
so my kingdom thrives

Standing in gardens
My treasure trove of colours
that never fails me

Flowers bow gently
The winds make the tall trees sing
Rivers flow calmly

Scents drift in the light
I hear its sweet melody
As I stand with pride

A Queen now enters
The daughter of Spring and Deer
The tender Queen Fawn

Who smiles so sweetly
Fragrant, soft-spoken and kind
With deer by her side

Another Queen comes
The angel with a kind heat
The gentle Queen Sue

Who has healed her wounds,
broken her chrysalis
And spreads her warm light

Another Queen comes
Wise and soon to be married
Joyful Queen Donna

Who goes with the flow
A talented haikuist
with a flower crown

Another Queen comes
She who is always giving
The giving Queen Kim

Whose crown's a halo
And her words, so spiritual
fragrant and calming

Another Queen comes
Who has birds singing so sweet
The sweet Queen Robin

Who is a true joy
Whose words are just like music
A kindred spirit

And now a King comes
Who is very much like me
The great King Omni

Who is an artist
Who is both seen and unseen
Very much like me

Another King comes
Ever so mischieveous
The playful King Paul

Such a playful tease
He who makes me smile and laugh
And looks out for me

Another King comes
His heart is strong and tender
The wise King Edmund

Who writes for himself
Speaks so well of others and
how vital love is

To these Kings and Queens
Thank you for your melodies
You are golden souls

For now I do see
The true power of my quill
My ink is gold too

I write out my life
My pain, my fears and my loves
And my achievements

I must stay above
I will walk with my head up
and ignore the bad

People will hate me
But I will thicken my skin
to be a true queen

I will empower
And give you all your respects
and never denounce

I am a true Queen
With a Court that is growing
steadily but strong

The reign of Queen Lyn
Who is sensitive and shy
It has just begun
To these poets in particular, thank you so much for pushing me forward!
I'm grateful to everyone here to all my fellow poets on HP
You're all Kings and Queens of your own right!
Much love and blessings!
Lyn ***
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age;
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade;
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes;
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread hands,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”
MJL Apr 2
Tibetan Brimstone butterflies wave wings madly at their paradise valley
In the beginning, before the beginning, and in the beginning
Their shaken snow globe makes them flutter in wild exuberance
As they reveal a mountain, then no mountain, then Kunlun again
Peace, followed by chaos, and then by peace
Mother Luna's kaleidoscope of enlightenment
Protected by the hooded one
Holds all worlds and shakes the four seasons
Nothingness, creation, abiding, destruction
The wheel of time
Moves the wind as it’s blown by vast circles of water
Aqua marine is washed again by golden earth
And in the center, the great opal mountain song of La
Nature's peace
Beyond white leopard snows, icy winds, and empty husks of death
Butterflies are born again
Shambhala’s mindful beat opens passage for light through darkness
Poets squint and ride on wings toward the hidden sunset kingdom
Watching another world's Avalon alive beneath a blue moon
Insulated chrysalis of love for all seasons
A fisherman, a carpenter, a shepherd, a merchant, a caterpillar
Discover a lush, isolated, peach grove
Nosing thickly scented nectar and purple primrose honey
In the jade valley of the kings, queens, and beggars
They meditate under the Bodhi Tree
Deep brown ****** lines are carved into their soft olive skin
Smooth hands are made rough, and then smooth again
Young, then old, and then young once more
Wisdom setting beside Queen Spirit Mother of the West
Sharing a bowl of her rice milk in harmony
Being in the realm between man and nature as Kalachakra turns
For six years the caterpillar eats of fig
And then the wheel breaks for flight one last time
Radiating light as she sheds her glorious wings
Here, the snow globe explodes flying petals of wild exuberance
Revealing a mountain, then no mountain, then Kunlun again
Transcending all, turning tears into the suns joyful rays
As they rise, then set, and then rise again
Beyond our Lost Horizon

© 2019 MJL
I loved the 1939 movie, Lost Horizon, and it's story of Shangri-La. It drove some interest in reading about Buddhism... Could we be butterflies reborn? How wonderful that would be... Young then old, then young again. All at once nature and man, one with our universe. Those who seek wisdom find salvation... The caterpillar here is a beggar who finds ascension. Cycles represent the wings flapping. There are also references to universal religious themes.
Jesse stillwater Oct 2018
Love is more
    than a ballet—

beyond gestures,
steps and poses;
more than a passing
summer breeze
soon forgotten;
a twirling pirouette
in an ever changing
season's  fleeting dream
To really SEE,

— turn a blind eye    
to the incantations
of what we're looking at
— lose sight of all    
    we preconceive —

FEEL the music
dance inside the note,
swimming deeply
inside the rivers
   of its soul —
listen searchingly
to the fomenting breeze
as it fans the
smoldering flame
in your heart

   Love is —
an erupted moment;
an enveloping
burst of flames
an uncontainable wildfire

an unfolding chrysalis,
butterfly kisses wafting
in the halo around the moon

a thundering heartbeat
a fiery burning  
    ring enrobes —

an enchanted sunset
vanishing into an
evanescent afterglow

The downward spiral
of a burning ember
erupting in a rising moon;
climbing the rungs
of the twilight horizon

Words may sing a sad song
of love and misery;
some say: “love is forever”..,
a hesitant reminder —
your pretty words
and sweet lies
still linger where
sleeping memories lie:
you never really saw
my world straightaway
peering out through
the corner of your eyes

Looking heart to heart
through the glass reflection
within the window
of a poet’s pages,
when nobody else
in sight seems to care,
gazing right past you
like you're not even there;
only posing words
amongst the untamed
waves of emotional depth

Lying to myself
won't ever make
the truth go away
when you hear
whispered words
      grow silent —

Love is more than a ballet ...
but I don't know a thing about "forever"

Jesse Stillwater ... October 20, 2018
"That love is all there is, is all we know of love" Emily Dickinson
melissa rose Jan 2018
Lying on the edge of truth
outside the borders of belonging
I suffocate inside the façade
beholden to a wilderness of pain

I watch in awe
those emerging from the chrysalis
discovering their wings
and soaring effortlessly into belonging

They are the sun radiating on a new dawn
a fuel of inspiration
lighting the way
back home

But I am a caged butterfly
burdened by clipped wings
destined to be alone
within this wilderness of pain
Tatiana Dec 2018
Two monarchs cross paths
dancing around eachother.
With words so airy,
one should know to be wary
of what will be said next.

"How does your son fair?"
"Fairs as well as yours I presume."
"Yours always had a knack for flair."
"Yours always could wow a room."

Disguised insults spoken.
Each compliment flapped away with wings
that carry the monarch to their next test.
Where they'll see which flowers they like best.
To gather in support of their queens.

"You know what would be tragic?"
"Why do you continue to speak?"
"If a son were to fall to magic,
before his heart could take a beat."

The two monarchs parted ways.
Promises rolling off their tongues
as sweet as the nectar they drank.
But were designed to attack the other's rank.
Their success depends on the other's defeat.

Conversation stalls as the monarchs fly home.
On wings decorated so finely.
Each of their thoughts seem to turn towards their sons
Just caterpillars before their transformations.
Weaving their chrysalis with determination.

Though they're far apart
the monarchs speak the same words

"I fear for you, my son, in this great world,
Our reign can never last for long.
But I wish for you to have your chance
To encapture the world in a trance
With a grace bestowed upon your wings
I wish for you to make others sing.
For I've seen the tragedy of the other king
Just before transformation
I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis."

"I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis,"

"I saw a caterpillar die..."

"My son, that has made all the difference."
© Tatiana
Sorry to...
Hit yo noes
like a brick of green
Like the grass that grow
nourished by the Celtic saints that know

Man tell a lie better make it true
if you don’t, then what do I make of you?

Now Wonder Woman
no wonder were human
bringing Brooklyn
some thunder hoodlum

My baited brown eyes look up and down you

Mile marker .66
and I’m still hitting this
crisp as a chrysalis
you may be the eyewitness
of my fist to this

more like the wittiness
of my pen tip dipped in ambergris
I get around you get the gist
healing hands I mend the cyst
with broken hands I gripped the rich

don't understand
don't worry
like Krishna I persist

zzzz Slept on like
The buzz of viciousness
**** the violence
turn the red to VIOLET
just look right through my eyes slit

Now and then
divine feminine deigned
to grace my face again
turned fake eyes to grin
false pride, double subs, and sin.

Complete appreciation, genuflected form reflected in

this fertile goddeSS
who puts the seeds in season
She see through SnakeS and reedS when
She based in wiSdom

designed to take the basest race
from darkest depths to airs of divine space
till we’re flushed with grace
some are hushed by my ace in the whole

I'm a S33ker throwing axes
but YOU better only call me

an axehole


***** simple as this.
I͕̩̞’̘̞̯m ̩͙̫͚̳̼͚s͇̞̞̯͕̳e͚ṱ̖̼̯̯̟͔t̘̞̹ͅi̼̠̺͇̪n̗̝̫g ͍̞th͈i̮s̮̟͕̫̫ ba̠̠̮̤r̠̙̼
͉̲I͖̱̫͈͖͈͖’͈̯̘̞̘m̞̠̠̯ͅ ͔̯̬̳̮s͚̘̝͎̮̣̩t̩̩̬̖e͉̖p̜̻p͕̼͎̗̣i̝̗̙̘n̰̫g ṱ̪̺͎͖̬̳h̰̝̘is̲͇̺ ̫f͍͉̠̹̣̯ͅa̟͉͓͖̦̗̩r͇̫̬͎̥
̹͉̱̫̟̩T͕̼̯̣̼͉r͍̘̘͎̝̤̟o̜͔̣̭͎͇n a̭͈̘̜̻ͅn̬̩̱̭̞̜͉d̺ ̠̖̯̠th̺̜e̦̯̫̙̤̠͉ ̫̟͉̗̠̤̦m͔̳a͔̝͉t̯̜ri̥͉x̦
̝̦̳͙̯b̭̤e ̯̰̖̤̯s͚̩̺̩ha͚͇̼͍͇p̭̜͖in ͕t̙̤h̟̳̣̯̬is ̠̼̹ͅc͓̼̝̣a̯̭r͓͔̙̮̠͎̠
̱̟ș̝̞̫ome̯̜͎̙̤̜ͅ ͔͓͔̝͚̬s̗͍̹̟͖̼u̦b̙̜͚ͅs͖̯ ͈̦̣ ḅ̼̬̬̯ͅu̞̬̩̻͙̝m̜̭͔p͙̟̩̼̼̳ ̳̘͔͕͖͖͓s̜̺͕o̜me̖̱͓̺ ͈̣
̣͔͔̖̖b͈͖͖͈a̫̰͔̤̜̹r̤̭ͅs̻͉̼ ̗̯̪s̤͓̟o͈͕̞̞̜̯̭ ͖͙̮h̻a͙̞͇̟ṟḍ͕̻ ̖̯̘̝͕͙weͅ ̻ri̹̖̞̣͙̬s̻k̹͇̼̬ ͎̬̤̪̳̹̟mars̜͇̩͇
V̺̙̞e̲͓̤͍i̹ṇ̥̰̮͍̜̟s̼ ͕s̘͍̮t̫͍͚͕͎a̙̹rṭ͖̭͕̟͙ ̺͕͎͎̖ͅp̼̮͔̭o̲̻p̙̞͕̯̫p̹͉̮͇̼̗ͅi̥̱n͚g͕̱ ̯̣̙̘̗̺̤
̤h̰̤e̺͓͓͕a̻͎rṭ̥͈̗̮̻̣s͖̠̠̤͚̼ ̗͉͓̫̱̫c͍̫̜͎͉ṛ͚̭y̘̰ ͉̗̙̻̩h̙̱͈a͔̮̟̥̞͕r͙̣̠͎d̟̬̰̫ ̰̻̭̖̻̜̬i̻n ̟͎̳̹͉ͅt͕̠̟̖̘̹h̻͓̗͉̭͖̦e̱̞͖͓̰̪ ̩ra̗͉̜̞̻ͅͅi͉͕̱̹̠n̩
̝͎̙m̜͔̱̮̻͔̜u͉̜r̮d̟̫̞̗̹e̺̭̟r̞̘̭̤ ̘an̞͔̬̫̥ͅd̺ ͙̭͔̖̤͎b̠ḷ͔̜̭̩̫͕o͕͙̬̦̝͇o͕̺̝͚̖̙ͅḓ̻̯̤̫̪̦
͇͓͚̪it̘͉̬̞’͇̞͖̺͓̲̱s̱͕̼̣ ͖̰̺̮̼̠̣n̥̝̥̼͉̙o͍͚̥͈̫t͍̜̰̞ ̼̻̗̮ha͖̭̺͙̟͖̭r̰̬͖̙̣̬̭d̲ ̻̝͙͙͔̤̘t͙͔͍̟̫͉̗o̬͓̟͙̘ ͖͈̥̬̠͎ͅe͙̮̱͓͉n̼̫̜͉̘t̪̠̹̼̲̝e̝̱̖͙͎rț̠͕̰ͅa̲͇i̥̜ṇ̙ͅ
Nobody Aug 2018
You loved me for my potential,
for that sparkle in my eye that told you
I could be your prize,
the gem you'd hoped existed.
You fed me words of wisdom,
as well of food and drugs and love;
the recipe of your feat,
hoping I would chrysalis and bloom
to the version of me you wanted
but I didn't,
And I never again have heard from you.
Sonia Ettyang Sep 2018
And then the butterfly untrapt itself from the chrysalis and spread its wings out
At last! its eyes were wide open and it marveled at every blossoming flower  
and sweetness of the nectar
with sheer joy it flew back to tell the caterpillars about its awesome discovery but none of them believed it
They doubted it because they have never had wings to fly and witness the world above ground
And so with every inch in the air  the butterfly decided to fly away and find those of its kind. Far it flew and never looked back
The end.
©Sonia Ettyang
Clelia Albano Oct 2018
Once there was Lady Death at
my side. She blew a cold wind
in my room; sang a lullaby of
indefinite colours, a tune
without sound. Neither black
nor white this sad lady wore.
I did not understand she was
there for me. So I began to talk
to her about external things and
life and butterflies. She told me
I would have gone back to the
stadium of a lizard, stuck on a
white rough wall warmed by
the sun. I felt my body heavy
‘till she opened a breach in my
forehead. Then she told me I
would have gone forward to
the stadium of a stone carved
by tears. I felt my eyes blind
‘till she opened a breach in my
soul and I shivered. She told me
at the end that I would have gone
back to the present to the stadium
of a chrysalis. Then she opened a
breach in my chest that poured
dust of pain and my heart became
a butterfly.
This poem comes from a real experience I lived ten months ago. I wrote it straight off letting inspiration working without constraints for a more authentic picture of what was emerging from my unconscious the night I put down these verses. I consider it the only way to recount my meeting with the death. From then up to now I have a stronger bond with life and writing poems has became an addition of life, the multiplication of my existence.
Afia Sep 2018
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ****** bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Jen Aug 2018
They unfolded
More and more...
Her wings
On a
Hot, summer day;
No more.

Chrysalis faded,
As she surged
Monarch landed,
On what was
The caterpillar's
It once nourished
New life.

Short lived
In stages,
Winter's face emerged,
Early that year.
We saw our
Breath in
The air,
What is there?"

Behind the
Frozen Lake,
"Here lies
The Monarch.
May she rest in peace."

Motionless in an
Icy tomb,
It looked like
She was captured,
For nature's
A flower' s

No longer
Only to die
In the blink
Of an eye.

Our time here,
Doesn't last long.

Say no more...

Is she somewhere
Bright and Free,
Dancing in
A world
Beyond belief?

Say no more.
Peter Watkins Jan 20
The bustling disquiet of shopping centres at mid-day makes me feel uneasy now. The people appear, as crashing waves of peachy white and pastel brown. I can’t stomach this buzz. Don’t they have something better to do? I think a woman’s screaming, clawing after the last carton of milk. A gentleman decks a teenage boy, for having the tenacity to take the last fifty-two-inch TV. I can’t really quit laughing. But everyone looks so serious. I think they’re staring at me, as though I’m making fun, and I am so not!
          You’re all a joke regardless of my seeing you! Go on, and on and on and on, keep going like no one’s watching you. As much as I’ve always wanted the rapture, I see now I’m a fool. This wave of people, no, better yet: animals. This flood of ******* genius is exactly what God would send forth. Oh I’m laughing again. What a ******* he is... They really do move like water, if river, ocean or tide had a mind of its own. I can’t really stop seeing their fluidity now. Overlapping and sliding off, and doing the same again, and crashing until frothing over and over, again and again until they flow away with less of themselves.
         Gentle, sweeping ecstasy floods my mind in tsunami. The pleasure overcomes the little ***** which festers in my skin. It gapes at me, that festering wound: red and raw. But I’m too busy, staring at the wall, seeing faces and writhing bodies struggling against the dense brickwork. I drool as I watch my shoe and the ******* sprouts wings.
          I feel him struggling, flapping, making me laugh tryna’ get away. I wiggle my toes and he giggles too, and I ask him “Hey little shoe, you like that so why you run away?” And he goes all dead serious, and straight away I know things are starting to turn out bad, as he says “Mister, it’s just what I do, and you gonna be running too, soon enough.” And I see the walls moving again, his little wings cover his head, and I’m teeming with all sorts of bad feelings. But for some reason, I keep on looking at how my laces create a little mouth, and how his little leathery hide, spotted all white, flexes with my foot. It keeps breathing and breathing, compelling me to tear it free of its spine; swinging it to beat the terrible walls back, back and away.
          But then I’ve woken, such a hacking cough, crucified on a bed of broken glass leagues below my window. On my feet, cracked and blasted bones, stumbling through the neon night compelled by the itch of home. Not particularly sure where this park came from, with tangerine lights and dew-soaked grass. There is a desk in the middle of the grassy field’s expanse. I’d go and ask who put it there but it would start talking all over again. It looks like little hands are clawing out of the dirt, but I later conclude (after stomping one of the annoying *******) that the grass just looks all wobbly. I’d have gasped at this revelation but I fell over first, and it felt like I didn’t really stop tumbling. Call me Alice and give me a dress, it’s **** like this that I live for. I’ve fallen into a slippery pit that’s dark and wet like a huge throat, but oddly cold like being beneath ice. I feel like I’ll never hit the bottom, when a falling candlestick sneezes engulfing me in flames. I’m kind of screaming now, but it doesn’t really hurt it’s more just reactionary. And the great whirring noise! My breathlessness and whimpering, I can’t see: such sublime golden heat and... ****! ****! Thud.
         Slipping out of my bed, on to the terrace where the stars may see me; peaceful at last beneath the ultra-marine sky. The Maharaja approves of my efforts for the nation; the blood I have spilled, enshrined within scarred veins. I have journeyed for him, into the chrysalis of the mind. Folds of wrinkled DNA trapped deep in this eggshell cavity. Smash the egg, smooth out those folds and initiate rebirth. I raise my arms in rejoice, oh how proud he is, winking at me in the stars. My brain stretched across the sky, the colours swim and mix; fornicate in the open petri-dish. The truth emerges so.
A surrealist prose-poem influenced by the works of Ginsberg and Burroughs
ColtonC Mar 2
Burning water
scars your skin.
Arched back, slipping
on the cold marble.
like an animal, trying to

fly away.
A spark, a golden haze, a rainbow
as light meets water
Your prison
a glowing chrysalis.
The rush of

Flies fast
up, out of reach
It's wings
a vibrant orange
Rare and beautiful
It is

lost to you.
Slipping into darkness
The maze of the mind
A vast forest
Full of life, full of
dead ends.

You may catch a glimpse
of orange
through the mist.
Like a beggar, reach up with
grasping hands, desperate, feel
its touch, it burns
your frail fingers, and you

into darkness
Blind as a beggar
Empty and cold, you wait
for the rush to return
the rush of wings
vibrant orange
rare and beautiful
Written 01/02/2019
My second poem, I'd love to know what you think it's about. Again, all feedback is appreciated, that's what I'm posting them for
Jayne E May 29
Summers morn in my garden
the red admirals all in flight
as they waft on a light breeze
wings catch sun a visual delight

Ive watched them morph
from chrysalis on swan plant
in my garden many grown
so delicate they do enchant

We call them monarchs
wings opaque fiery red
as I work over my garden
they flutter around my head

one lands on my shoulder
while I dig the hard ground
sits drying it's wings
just hanging around

does it know me as guard
of its fibrous womb
spun as diaphanous thread
until time comes to bloom

Breaking to fly free
from hard chrysalis shell,
a gift of true beauty
wings aloft high & well

delicate in wafting flight
mass migraters from
the Gulf of Mexico now
wouldn't that be a sight.

content for now with
this my quite lovely swarm
as I lie back eyes skyward
in the grass all soft, all warm.

J.C. honey-tiger 22/02/2019.
I grow swan plants in my garden have done for years now, the monarch, or red admiral caterpillars live this poisonous plant and make their chrysalis' on.  Its a delight when they hatch in Summer.
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