I keep butterflies in
the empty beer bottles
that dress the edges of my consciousness,
that repel the disdain of the common,
that consumes the triumph of the considerate.
Vulgarity is but perspective and beauty deserving
no better a frame.
Iridescent scales dress the paper filaments
obscured through nicotine stained glass.
Like an old opium house
raggedy at the seams with nary
a straight timber, images dressed through a mirror
seem only as distraught.
Frozen in silicate slag,
it lines every empty
Hearth of the transcendental
beckons to the immortal to marvel
at rippled reflections of reverence
faded in time like worn burlap stretched out among
established as a cruder mockery,
the emptiness of life abandoned into
Spectacles to the cosmic swirls that
trace the couriers of angels.
Amber and fluid.
Trapped to unto and
from, life, death and
A transient traveler of existence
and none at all.
Kept in the most I can afford
to keep it all the same
in bottles of trodden efforts.
So I keep butterflies in empty beer bottles.