Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Bird and Butterfly

Two days ago I wrote,

I am just a little bird.

I am also a butterfly.

Butterflies flutter, daintily,

happily, from blossom to blossom

picking up the golden dust and

nectar of loving, courageous,

beautiful life.

Insect flower in the wind.

Temporary Contemporary

Temporary,
temporary.
It's all about our contemporary.

In the end all this
fighting,
killing,
and competing
and trying to be
bigger than ourselves
and everyone else means
nothing because we all
end up in the same place,
beneath the grass.

Temporary,
temporary.
It's all about our contemporary.

Rusted Cups

How can we drink from life's rusted cups?

Do we poison ourselves if we do?
Put a badge of gangrene on our soul?

I loved you and life once
in a time so much better than this.
We had our favorite hill
we would sit on together.
There were sharp rocks there
quartz and others with gold specks.
The rocks cut our hands a little,
but we noticed not the blood
that came nor the gold.
We had each other before
the noise, cars, and hate came.
Our memories dance among
the stars now.

How can we drink from life's rusted cups?

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