like enslaved butterflies- their strained flight is subjected and harnessed, carrying lead blocks into dark forests – my thoughts dwindle in the fire of misdirection. as our wings slowly give way to gravity.
my thoughts speak to me in slurred speech, in languages that i cannot understand, they preach to me in ways i know not of. They are visiting me, like tourists from distant places. Maybe they are not mine, lost by a departed spirit?
maybe
