The Lepidopterist


Not meant for constraint

Her words struck me

Like a murder of butterflies

The gentlest kill

Brushes to the lips

And a dusting to each cheek

Beautiful, some called it

A delicate touch

Then like the chrysalis

She’d emerged from

She vanished

Winter coming early

The season of chills

Yet, still, I searched

And found her cocoon

Her empty husk

Lodged in my dreams

With the memories of others

Empty, they dangled

Just butterfly echoes

Lost in time

Tinkling their own tunes

Never mine

16 thoughts on “The Lepidopterist

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