I'm thinking of writing a book with short stories/novelles (???) and poems...This is the first I wrote
Butterflies
…From a distance.
Somehow we didn’t know wrong from right. We seized the day; we were living life on the edge of the page. Never did we worry about the next; there was to be no turning point, only lives that would forever linger to all the happiness and joy. We would dress up as pirates, ready to capture every being passing by on the streets; we would be king and crown, knighthood and lances.
Everyday I enjoyed that smile upon your face; that calm whisper of hope, soothing me. Do you remember the failing grips? A glimpse of a butterfly, leaving the trees by the sidewalk, casting a liquid shadow over the flowers that bloomed beneath it’s wings. They would forever bloom; forever love their surroundings. Do you think they’re still standing there? I remember the shadows painted on the wall built around the graveyard, the playground of lives left behind. How I grieve now you’re gone. We used to sit there, listening to the whisper of the nearby lake; the silent water. Do you think it’s still there? The sound still echoes somewhere in the distance.
Once I awoke from a dream of falling trees; of falling skies. And I saw you hanging there from the ceiling, in front of me – Your eyes painted the same way, as I painted them long ago. A glimpse of a butterfly, leaving your shoulder, casting a liquid shadow over the floor of this hotel room. There was nothing new to be found here, just the playground of a fading life. Do you remember the failing grips?
Once I awoke from a dream of falling trees; of failing grips. And I wanted to leave it all behind, I wanted to leave you all behind. I forgot all about the promise we made, of always keeping silent when darkness fills the room, and my scream awoke you from your dream. Your eyes in shades of black. Point blank. Inevitability. Catastrophy. Waking myself from a dream of silent streams and falling trees. Was it you or I who died back then?
I’d dress you up as a pirate, you’d capture the butterfly, hold it within your hands, walk to the balcony, just to release it. I realized that you never really were there, just as I.
The mist of yesteryear, still lies in the air, and from a distance the old bridge seems withered in decay.
A thousand ravens sweeps across the scenery of a grey autumn sky, changing the linen from black to white, and at the blink of an eye, all icons fade from colour to pale, leaving only the taste of ashes from memories.
Then at the end of the line, I see your eyes staring at the edge, and I find myself attracted to your state of mind. And as I breathe the air you do, I realize...
...that you are blind!?
Once I awoke from a dream of flowers blooming in the early spring; of yesteryears. And I wanted to leave it all behind, I wanted to leave you all behind. I forgot all about the promise we made, of never opening your eyes in the middle of the night. I opened my eyes, and found you and I lying there on the floor. Point blank. Inevitability. Catastrophy. I walked to the balcony, with two butterflies in my hands. One for you and I. Yours flew away, mine had a broken wing. How I grieve now you’re gone.
