– assured… or something like it –

Butterflies or a sinister illness…

either way, something is rumbling down there.

The longest ache should leave me winded,

gasping,

grasping for relief that will be ever…

lasting.

Such knots would be hopelessly tied,

leaving tears in and out these eyes.

However, butterflies and/or a sinister illness

have lost effect on these bones.

It doesn’t reek of a fluke,

quietly waiting,

gleefully anticipating the now classic fallout

I know too well.

No,

this scent is aromatic,

fragrant like a pie of which I’ve never tasted.

What pleasure do I take in this?

How can this fulfill my soul,

or whatever my soul is shaping into?

These butterflies…

This sinister illness…

 

 

D.J. Whisenant

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