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Butterfly Dust

And the dead were never returning
Rowboats paddling into the mist
Silhouettes of dark men and women
And snippets of talk, disappearing
Down the swirl of memory
And the dead were never returning.

The butterfly sat still on my finger
And drew blood from its tip
I didn't wince there was no pain
I didn't feel the rain running down my face.
Impassive as ever, the sun parched
The butterfly's wings, till it crumbled into dust.

And the dead were never returning
And the dreams were never raising
The dead to the living any more...
It ended where it began in the cycle of thoughts
Wafting out of the millions of pores on my skin
But I could not feel a thing. The butterfly
Has crumbled to dust.

There were people in the room; All of them
Talking at once! Eyes larger than oranges,
Smiles wider than their hearts, hands
Waving in my face, screaming lullabies in my ears;
But I didn't stop to listen, and walked
Out of the room, the rain drizzling
In a ceaseless drone. The dust from the butterfly's wings
Was carried out in a river.


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