Written by Callie Cheng
Art by Pixabay
There’s a hazy blue land,
With a hazy blue light,
Where beneath a thousand cocoons,
‘Tis a beautiful fright.
For sleeping lays dormant,
Are a massacre’s intent,
In each caterpillar’s sac,
Dream their wings of torment.
See, when comes that time,
Those pupaes will bloom,
Slicing petals of their shells,
To make butterflies of doom.
Their wings are white daggers,
Made of a burning iced gleam,
With a mouth parched for the flesh,
Of my poor peacock-ed esteem,
For those thousand vile chrysalises,
They glisten inside me,
Scheming their flourishes in slumber,
For when comes my day of debris.
So when will they bloom?
You, innocent ask,
And it tears me in silence,
From beneath this shriveled mask,
And it happens right then,
And it happens right there,
From my lips spring those dancers,
Of white wings to the air,
They bulge up from my belly,
In a stinging bile bought,
Words, words, words, words,
Flapping, flying, about.
And just like that they’ve all hatched,
Made a massacre of me,
What’s left here just pants,
Soaked in tears now leaked free.
But you smile at the butterflies,
Gazing up as white clouds disband,
Saying “Isn’t it pretty?”
With a warm outstretched hand.
Perhaps I’ll take it then,
As you’ll take me now too,
Though torn by the butterflies,
Born from mine own mind’s blue.
But they’ve all fluttered out now,
And it’s funny, because you like them somehow.