I built you a silver butterfly.
But it got caught in a wire web and it’s wings turned to shiny dust.
Faerie dust in a cold winter wind that whips it like blades of glass into our eyes.
I feel like the last of a pathetic species smothered in spilt oil.
They’ve been calling me a pest. A threat.
When they’re rid of me they may realize it was the rats carrying the plague.
Fix me. polish the pretty penny.
They make it sound like money solves it all.
From this brown grass view even the stars have such big tears.
Even as they swim in green.
metaphors and alcohol cures the flu.