To be misunderstood is not a cliché’ … There are a few… more than a few …
We are wandering around society…
hidden…
not relating to people so much…
but only to the faint sounds of a butterfly’s wings…
Trying to understand…. how we are supposed to be….
And what if we are to love …?
then that love becomes the butterfly…
free to fly ….
and so it does….
Suddenly we are left only to love the misty vapors of a memory… clinging to something that is intangible….
but something so intangible… capable of ripping out each of the chords of my heart one by one…strand by strand...
Each note played off key as it dies in a tensionless pile at the base of my soul…
Each day a slow death… each remaining chord holding what’s left of my human heart….
The beats become weaker…as the pain grows stronger…and that pain is the only thing that sustains it…
Each day the memory fades….the colour of your continence and the sound of your voice…
I'm holding on to the pain... because that is all that I have left of you….
Butterflys….so beautiful…spend so much time in the chrysalis… only to spend a short time stretching its wings in the sun…
And so it was with our love…