time spent telling stories

it’s never about. it’s about

proximity, becoming

that which clashes, first stranger

than an awareness

predictions have almost never

accurate;

and yet fools walk on hopes

resting on hell’s door.

what’s up silly?

a butterfly raises wings; flies

off the shoulders of one

distracted;

too busy catching

rainbows – it’s just an illusion;

you can’t actually hold it, grasp

though feelings are like butterflies

they life wings

dart about

then drop from the sky

when wings get soaked with thunder clouds

not forgiving.

multicolored butterfly struggling to raise

rise: can not, rainbow colors flushing through out

at the end of the bridge

hindsight.

meanings become clear; the door opens

and a kindred finds friends

familiar – time spent, relationships forge

into a bridge of iron and dust.

i know you,

and that’s what matter – you know

when stories end;

it’s about what actually happened.