My heart feels weighed down with butterflies
they lift and carry me
to the dizzy of thin air.
Looking down I shout in praise of my height
because I believe that I’m not flying but
with little oxygen to breathe.
Butterflies are useless
and their legs weak.
Exhausted wings flutter and strain
until that eventual tear
the inexorable break.
Did I fall like a shooting star?
Beautiful to behold
until it takes out every window in town
with a piercing BOOM.
Shards that cut.
The butterflies have disappeared
and the unfortunate grit of road in my skin appears.
Grief overwhelms me
from the destruction … because I flew.
My heart feels weighed down
pockets of stone.
I am far too determined to stay
down and low.
Next time, remind me to steer away from the
bank of the river
where the butterflies gather to sip
and wait for the next journey.
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