careful
fulfillment
of routine
keeps the
butterfly
(carnivorous bastard,
he may be)
from flapping
his wings
thusly allowing
an illusion of
control

i am having
issues
telling what
is really
real
and what
is anxiety
murmuring
general gentle
insanities
keeping me awake
long past my
expiration trait

a cask of
amontillado
gone to
vinegar
abound on
the lunacy
in the moon’s
tugging
frayed yet
unafraid of
the tattered
soulwisps
dancing in
place of
the stars

morpheus is
a petulant whore
while orpheus
bemoans a
bodiless malaise
as i lick my lips
uncertain which
black river flows
hoping for lethe
yet content to
linger in the
chilling currents
as the ferryman
hauls the dearly
departed to a
final torment

i feel a
ripple contort
itself across
the ceiling
a gentle disturbance
(from a gently
disturbed, albeit slightly
carnivorous)
embuttered
bitterfly who
couldn’t keep
his fucking wings
from flapping
eliminating the
momentary illusion
of control