ideas on the floor

all the ideas are dripping on the floor
is that blood or water?

beaten up butterfly
searching for a place to rest.
she’s not a bee
and doesn’t have any weapons to launch an attack
touch her wings and she’s dead.

fragile.

coloration of a deadly bug,
everyone stays away.
no poison but everyone misinterprets

oh so fragile:
a crack becomes a chasm
a thought becomes a twitch.

all the ideas are dripping on the floor
is that blood or water?

did we dream this again?
are we sleepwalking through this moment again?
did we shut our eyes tight enough to miss it again?
poison?
are you sure?
this tastes like honey.
wait, I don’t eat honey.
am I dead again?
is there a way to come back from a crushed wing?
or do we hang it up entirely?

all the ideas are dripping on the floor

06.21.16

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