It is frustrating not to have any time to edit things before I post them. But, I guess that was the point.
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These days, we are surrounded on all sides
by poems on two feet, most unaware
the groaning of their broken bodies hides
explosive music, grasping at the air.
The butterflies are naked in the mist,
the hunters net extended quick to snare one.
Examining the wings, he checks his list
and hopes his prisoner will prove a rare one,
but you and I, we read the heart of things,
the loveliness behind his jealous hope.
The most mundane of moths -- the dullest wings
are just as fair beneath a microscope.
The lowly and neglected we extol.
We long to sing the song of every soul.
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