There’s a store that I sometimes tapped on, rapping lightly, burning brightly, pointing at all the pretty butterflies that fluttered and scattered to the Heavens and sometimes returned.
I had more, but the butterflies ate them.
If I feed your paranoia, will you play with my dementia?
If I kick your hierarchy, will you slay my democracy?
If I slap your sadism, will you spin my puritanism?
It spins me ’round, like a jelly top, it spins my head so.
It sends me running, like angry bees, to and fro.
It reminds me of the life once lived so long ago.
But the butterflies ate all of my caramel corn.
And I can never go back to that store, ever again. As the insectoid creatures that birthed such beauty, have morphed into something worse, and the whole damn place needs to burn ….
Memories, they come, they go, but the after effects of their terror always remain, ingrained, in the wood, the air, the very space right there.
And sometimes, they burn …