Time remains pertinent to a constant negation of the known.
When a child pleats their knees like a Picasso shape,
Attains a butterfly inside a killing jar
Stares through the glass (fish-eyed.)
Innocence constitutes just a glance from the child.
Not the barbaric suffocation,
And eventual stripping of the wings.
The countenance of absurdity
The sporadic volume of noise chants!
-The butterfly should scream!
Be it a different species. But the juxtaposition of pain
Related to the animal
(Six legs writhing in five senses.)-Remains blessed by recognition.
And all the other aspects are dead?
I sigh to cold lungs
Demanding a melted inhale. Never once contemplating
The heat that haunts their lips
Like Famous Last Words. So I guard each stupid smile
With a notion of reverie.
We’re a few blood-lettings abreast from being pale.