The
Butterfly of revolution
I am on the hill watching the big-boned woods
through the clear glasses of my blank mind.
Nature appears sharp, the sky-scratchers faint.
I am calm as rice is white, this way it is right.
Mammoth-trees filter the toxicity out of the air.
My day-dream comes with the same clarity as the view.
A girl calling herself the Butterfly with the vision
to filter the toxicity out of the human race
clings herself to a redwood-tree. Wondering:
What if I have to come down
to find out the kids still lay paralyzed,
in the dead-ends of labyrinths they find in their phones?
If nothing changed after all my breath of revolution
went through the poisonous system?
Now, has the possibility of a healed earth collapsed
like social media suggests? Is it true the people
remained unconscious, for the soft beauty
of her tender eyes on wings for nature?
Years after her come-down
on a hill, overlooking the trees I grasp
the Butterfly of revolution effortlessly into my chest
without damaging her flight of color.
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