Spiders hang from threads made of shadows.
Blood dripping from his tongue,
Silence flooding the sky.
He’s pouring salt along open wounds,
Bandaging them with dust,
Disinfecting with poison.
Black roses on a coffin
For a small little girl
In a pale pink dress
And cuts along her
Fingertips.
Frozen clocks begin to move
Faster
Faster
Faster.
Done.
The sun has risen,
Early morning light
Shining brightly in the sky.
He walks to the graveyard,
Setting white daisies on
The little girl’s
Grave.
Days go by,
And he sits there.
Waiting.
Tearing petals off the flowers,
One
By
One
By
One.
And a butterfly lands on one daisy.
So gently,
So elegantly,
So sweetly,
So innocently.
He crawls on his hands and knees,
Holes in his clothes,
Dirt on his fingers.
He tickles the butterfly
And treasures it until it dies.
For the best thing to do
Is rip off the wings of a butterfly…
And sew them onto dead little girls.
