Butterflies in My Stomach

Lie to Me.
tell me, then
Love is less
Moth to Flame.
Colored in colours
reborn in sun
clinging late to Lilacs
flitting into
scarlet Sunset.

don’t tell me
love is akin to
miller moths
fly maddeningly
elusive and intrusive.
then suddenly silent on
Morning’s window sill.

I won’t believe
Love is like that
Nor life.
nervous now.
a choice.
I hold the
Dark dustywings in
My palm a moment
Contemplating how
Is it
One lives every event
Of an entire life
In a single day?

Open the door
and in waning hour
let it flutter
Toward hazy clouds
the once in a lifetime
superfull moon.


  1. as insubstantial as
    the dust on those wings
    the idea
    of the thought;
    and then
    to capture
    just that dust
    and shape it
    just the right words…
    no easy task
    nicely done.


  2. Well written, and timely, and words to thoughts we have had at least seasonally if not often. Kind treatment too; of the miller moths. Nice touch poet!

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