Make The Butterfly 7/6/15

                                     

Make the butterfly that stung me, please me in my time of pain. Make it hail faint stars I travel towards, and encourage them to look back for me and call out towards me every now and then. On cold, oh so deep soul cold nights, filled with shudder, let me feel my breath warm the air in my surround. Let me look out from behind my eyes to find my visual focus, not empty of meaning in a stare. Make the butterfly that stung me, comfort my newfound memories with thoughts in slow evocative strokes, stirring the molasses of my patience, to mesmerize my ever-now view, into a timeless churning. Aging, as my reflective companion, immerse me into wooded waters, where there is touch from tingly mind-rich fish that so easily hide among the placid leaves of my willowy starstruck presence. Make the butterfly that stung me, find for me a branch of the past that fulfillingly catches my undivided attention. All of these fish and leaves serenely being awash together in the skull boat of my being, as the fisher-one of now. Age will hold up a mirror to my daily catch and together we will mutter of this days' magical journey. Make the butterfly that stung me, get me relief from my otherwise surveying sad-filled eyes. May I find them all to be, the travel towards, that is eventually and pleasantly the journey of the conscious evolution of my mind . . .