Before the Song

Perhaps the end is the beginning,
Or maybe hearts do not get their amends.
So they spurt and sputter,
As butterflies flutter and fall
to the ground, dead
Without the faintest sound.
yet lying fully exposed.
Dead air and a mist rising
Destroying all those little dew drops
Reflecting softly
the decaying remnants of kisses from there to here…
Everywhere is little reminders,
On the path
leading back to that shame.
The air is so stale
And the world crumbles,
and there’s no oxygen
in which to breathe…
The wounds
of this injured one,
Her silent weeping..
In this soundless void…
Until, ever so softly,
Gentle warm breath
And a voice at her ear:
“Ephemera, kill the silence.
Make it sing.”


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