Simple, really
They’d have you think
we’re simple,
diluted and disillusioned,
eluding fierce allusions,
visions of grandeur
etched, in seconds,
into the wings of a butterfly.
We’re taught to follow patterns,
and patterned to follow.
Her wings shame Gogh,
humble Dali,
confuse her predatory world,
lift her into the air,
then ask her,
“Would cruel nature
truly select beauty?”
The butterfly shrugs
with great portraits
flitting over to a blossom
just as beautiful as she
in an ignorant world of ugly man
——
Today I’m on Libra,
yesterday was Capricorn
(in case you need to know
—— or if I forget it)
I’ve seen them all, I think.
Save Scorpio,
but of course I don’t belong
in this land of stars.
——
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