Grave of Butterflies

Every once in a while, I go to my graveyard

Where I hide all my books and some photographs

Every once in a while, I retouch the smeared drawings

With some salty memories

Every once in a while, I let some bats come inside

The big mausoleum and they turn out to be

Some golden butterflies

Made out of feathers and silver lining

Every once in a while, the withered trees surrounding

That graveyard turn into friends who guard all my poems

In every single leaf I write my verses

In every flower I draw a picture of a lover

During Blue Moon nights I let the sorrows be carried away

By the reaper with a golden scythe

She says she is not there for the living

But she is willing to carry away all of those whose hopes had faded away

In every grave I hide my doubts and penalties

And every once in a while the picture of unrequited love

I offer bad funerals for moments of love that went bad

I giggle in funerals where everyone seems to be blue

And all those golden butterflies turn into bats

When I get to read about my own lugubrious events

They turn to hairy darkness with sharp, poisonous fangs

And all that place illuminated by lanterns turns into a storm

Then far away, watching, she observes reflecting her empty leer in her scythe

-"You've failed."

DA 2015