~black butterflies

I remember when it was all as certain

       smooth as crystal in the starlit nightskies.

   The promises you laid at my feet,

where like wrapped presents and I was a child at Christmas,

     your words were golden wrapped

    Over time they became a flowing tributary to an ocean

where your reality was a dream I had seen in my own reveries.

                                 So we enjoined our words and worlds

    

 The more closely we embraced, the more you loosened your fists

                       releasing black butterflies.

   As they found a home in my throat,

             their wings engraved with your epithet,

                             I choked on their fluttering chitonous layers  

 while watching your dark eyes remain unmoved

                             …..as the air left my body.

 

  Indifferent, without a spark of light within them,

they were midnight and I was simply flesh with no essence

         as my light did not reflect in those dark pools

     where I drowned a thousand times.

Your hands, losing their grip,

        slipping through your preference

    as I dug my nails into the flesh of your fingertips

                                      then…you let go

 

As black butterflies continued to bluster forth

        spewing forth from your lips….exquisitely ominous

 

I wanted to believe it mattered.

     and that what you said was what you meant.

That you were more than a skinwalker with lightning panted on your face,

        and that words held more than syllables

                 formless and meaningless in black whirlpools

                                 …..svelte language hanging in chrysalis

 

       Deception always eluded the normative of my logic’s ends..

mendacity for the sake of consumption,

      when the promise of a vacuous relationship

is easier to maintain than one where one truly gives a damn

   something “virtually” real is a shadowstain

              the disconnect that accompanies these times

       

   

“the value of a sentiment is the amount of

     sacrifice you are prepared to make for it”*

 

A wise man once said, writers are solitary beasts who want to eat your soul 

   they hunt alone,.

they come together to mate and eat what is left.**

 

Are you full now?

 

           

                           

© Katherine Wyatt 2012

 

*quoted from Larry Keuchlin..   who continually gives me faith in writers.. and the power of poetry

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

“the value of a sentiment is the amount of
sacrifice you are prepared to make for it”*
A wise man once said, writers are solitary beasts who want to eat your soul
they hunt alone,.
they come together to mate and eat what is left.**"
The quote is amazing. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote



Are you full now?