The Hell Butterfly

– Pendant –

How like the Boy who Lived; to know

the yearning for the unattainable.

Before my eyes I see it, feel it almost

but I cannot grasp at it, slips through my fingers

like the traitor water in the font that mocks,

that goads.

Outstretched fingers to an object of defiance;

never shall it surrender,

a mutiny against the hands that pray for it.

Perhaps to drink may let me…

Yet would I

if I had the chance, take hold of what destroys?

I forget.

Time and time again it screams,

but do I hear it now? I cannot tell.

Whispers tearing through the throat that

taunts me.

Voices of another life,

another time in which I might have heard them.

And hear them yes, I did, but now…

I cannot hear it anymore.


No more do the echoes of an idol

call to me.

O, Boy who Lived, how could you make him drink?

To know it hurt, a poison to the lips

of he who taught you all you knew,

who spoke to you the only

words that you held dear.


And yet I wish for it.

To drink perchance to know,

Know how to feel again.

To feel, perchance to live.

Do I live now?

I forget…


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