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A Butterfly

Drinking past midnight,

The woman slumps in her chair.

The alcohol, as a therapeutic drug,

Worsens her form further.

 

A lazy breeze passes her by,

Sitting in the patio, out here;

She does not see what she misses—

Voices telling her to do it, she does not listen.

 

—Nature calls to her, she is restlessness.

She forces the red down her throat,

Her mascara smudged as a flat tire on the road;

She has wits, she will not abandon hope.

 

A butterfly appears on her chair,

A sign from Her, not to let go.

Not to let go of herself, she will lose the battle.

The woman listens, she is not done yet.

 

Slowly, she rises, her hair wild, her eyes round,

She looks at her reflection in the liquid;

She sees her shadow, what she despises most.

Shaking, she drops the glass vessel holding her death.

 

She does not trouble herself with forlorn thoughts,

She smooths’ down the hem of her skirt.

With the moon sparkling in her almond-shaped  perceptiveness,

She picks up the forgotten guitar, near her feet and starts to sing.

 

The butterfly, waiting patiently, calls out the moths, to a flaming bonfire.

Unknowns twittering to the melody of the woman,

Find her voice alluring and enchanting.

As sings her fears away, a new dawn approaches.

 

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