Living the Dream

A grounded butterfly, a wing hung useless,
fluttering one way, like a broken child
seized by a multitude of mad muscles
or a man, stumbling to the left
out of weakness of an artery.

A tree, with less limbs on one side,
a puckered scar like half a mastectomy
spiraling back in on itself, nippleless
and unable to regenerate another.
Beauty in a bipolar stance, letting light
bake and bubble skin of it, is this wound.

Sad-eyed dogs, waiting for saving
or a sudden syringe, panting
on the bars of a world grown small.
No wild fields to run.  No pack
of wolves to gain entrance to.
A lone canine, curving against rusted grill.

I’d save you if I could, but I am spiraling
through broken branches, waiting an innocent
redemption of my own.

Tags: Poems, Skin Talk //