Butterflies are like

                                   animated books

                  flying to manifest the work

                  of inner beauty designed

                          by the nature of

                        our universe.

Page of life                        

dictated by mundane thought

of existential shamans           

Diminishing shapes            

and creating their visions.     

For if it wasn’t for the           

bands of sorcerers, our             

 choices would be like rusted  

                             dust

from the old mills.

Shiny & new our eyes             

penetrate the distance            

making it work.                       

 Where does she smile?                

and when she’s with who?        

and why?  for what was said?     

I’d like to put perversely               

funny thoughts

in thru her eyes,                  

and fill her expanding head          

with intrinsic images      

         of the sick and insane     

creatures of this story.