Butterfly syndrome


They make your skin crawl
since they feed on roadkill,
stale piss and brewing windfalls;
not just flowers –

with that proboscis and eyes
like security cameras
recording movements
on hundreds of tiny screens.

The way some survive winter
due to antifreeze not blood
and how they skitter
seeping with meconium

like those flashbacks you check
in a heart-shaped mirror,
to see if they
are real and reflect.

Remember when we saved
a Large White from the spider-web;
and fed it home-made
nectar from a plastic lid?

You loved it even when
its flaking wings fell off,
but you were young
and still believed

you might fly too –
even when your slip-on
fairy wings were buckled
and their gauze torn

one Autumn when
the fallen leaves along
your little path were airborne,
as you ran along.


2 thoughts on “Butterfly syndrome”

  1. There’s some pointed, well executed and scary imagery here… the second stanza especially. The almost frantic and buffeted but innocent perspective of the subject really comes through. The first stanza immediately drew me in. It’s so honest and raw, kind of granular. This is another damn good poem, my friend; I’m glad I found your work.

    P.S. Read it again and I gotta say – “…with their creepy specialist equipment…” is so good.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thanks, this one has been slowly coagulating and forming in the dark recesses of my subconscious for ever such a long time – so it seems right that it should finally emerge in all its strange glory on the longest night of the year (if you live in this part of the world!)


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