BUTTERFLY


BUTTERFLY

I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME

2/8/11

Copy Write 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

Who are you?

Where are you?

I spent the better part of the day fighting for your life

do you understand that?

Yet I don’t know you

butterfly.

I and others dealt with the strife

you dropped in our lives this day

and we worked to help you in life to stay

and yet we know not who or where you are

tell me,

butterfly,

are you close or are you far?

Have your wings found the burning match?

You tumbled out and left the door to your soul standing wide

your fragile wings took to the air

and left us to stare at the empty spot

where you left an opening to read your thoughts

of which in ache you confide

the transformation cocoon you left behind

and your poetry screams out in pain

and now in anger I stand and yell at you.

Damn you!

Damn you

gentle butterfly.

Christ, pills scattered across the table top.

A woman drowning reaching for the surface.

Your video of  your daughters left behind

in memory of some happy time.

And mentions abuse and being left and leaving.

It all leaps across the electronic page

stumbles drunkenly across the stage

rushes headlong towards and ending I know not when and

of life and touches deeply hearts you don’t even know.

Do you not even care about the damage you’ve left in your wake?

But the final deed of selfish intent upon us you now bestow

you say

good by

and

good night

as  though going out for a walk

and leave us here now with our fright for thee

as the shadows lengthen and the trace of you is growing thin

as we unite and fight and pray for you

but we don’t know your name

butterfly.

Is this to be the last bit of fame?

Is this the end of your flickering flame?

Is this where ends your last song of another’s shame

that left you battered, bruised, too weak to give out your name?

Am I to be your helpless pall bearer?

Am I and the others simple pawns in the fight against death?

Yes, and my anger grows hot at this error

you’ve placed so many of us in bewildered terror

you wish to somehow drop without any shame

yet you stand and cry out in pain

and sweep us up along with you

and I don’t——damn you——damn us

I don’t even know your name.

Is our fight, our battle is it in vain?

Can nothing stop your onward rush

to meet death with out a blush

without a hush

without a——

Oh God,

oh, butterfly

I don’t even know your name.

 

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Alexie Aaron: writing, being a writer.


The following is a comment made on Face Book by a friend, Alexie Aaronabout writers and writing. I think it is the most beautiful description of a writer that I have ever rear. Alexie, you rock! Thanks for the following.

“I wonder if those words spoken to, or read for the first time, were the catalyst for the spark that lit the fire within us. To write and tell a story the way each of us does is a gift and a responsibility. We sometimes toil hours with an idea, or even just one sentence, not knowing if anyone beyond us will ever read our words. We do it for love. The love of bringing to light the world that resides inside our heads.

It does not matter if we have a happy ending or a soulful gasp. What matters is that we put these thoughts on paper. So keep writing my friends. Keep taking us to the secret corners of your mind. Be brave. Tempt fate and above all enjoy.”

Life is Good!
Alexie Aaron