Black Butterflies


I wanted to be the face you searched for in a crowd
the flower you danced in
 my scent clinging to your legs and back like pollen
as your mouth traced my veins like the faintest of necklaces 
Until you walked through the door together
with me unseen and unlooked for
unthought of
and I wondered where I would find my pieces of silver
for in that moment you made me a Judas 
I felt it like a punch to the solar plexus
and the black butterflies swarmed 
no creatures of sunbright meadows these…
I have spawned monsters
A kaleidoscope of shining razorwire wings 
born of sorrowed blood and the absence of light
I stood still 
and gazed across as if through a periscoping tunnel
and I felt the swarms eagerness
and their hunger rising through my pain
as they sipped my tears and waited with their eyes mirrored
and silver with anticipation
for the metamorphosis to complete
 and to welcome the blackness



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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