My stomach, a dining room of wings
as my shaky bow first slides the strings
of a tuneless Cello who screeches
that I’d become a lepidopterist.
When my steady bow slides the strings
my butterflies mollifyingly sing
that I’ve become a lepidopterist,
after years of antennas and sonatas.
My butterflies vociferously sing
my music fades, though they cling
after decades of antennas and sonatas
Death to my Cello and I, eaten by butterflies.
My music fades, though they cling
to extinguished aspirations and velvety things
Death to my Cello and I, eaten by butterflies
My stomach, a dining room of wings.