It Is The Butterfly

It was on a party, I saw this rare butterfly.

Truly made of flashing light. Supposedly invisible but I saw it.

It wasn’t beautiful, it is beautiful. General fact.

So, I began to ask myself, what was the butterfly doing in this party?

Does it dance? If yes, why does it dance?

Does it socialize? If yes, who does it socialize with?

Does it running from something? If yes, what kind of problem does such beauty may possess?

But the answers left hanging, like those glass candles on the walls.

Frozen, yet flaming, until it conflagrates itself into dying wax.

So it’s hanging, it’s hanging and hanging.

While the party goes, and the city burns, and the night screams.

The next thing I know,

I tried the strongest alcohol. I mix my drink to poison myself.

I supposed, losing my mind to another thing will help.

But it didn’t work,

I found out nothing can cause me more toxic than the butterfly.

I am drunk, but I believe I’m never that sane.

While insane, at the same time…

I tried the strongest escape. But, everything reminds me to come back to you. Dark magic, is it?

Lunatic, yestt… lunatic, yestt… Scarily fascinating. I even tried to talk in different accent.

For whatever it is, I started to fear your name.

I tried to resist the butterfly’s charm, but I failed at my very first second of start.

Actually, I lost count, all I can calculate is how misreable life will be,

without knowing the butterfly like I wanted to, like I want to.

One more question, I asked to myself, “does the butterfly even recognize me?”

But the answer’s also left hanging, just like the silk curtain above the window.

Blocking my sight, to find out if the sky was starry or stormy.

And I dance, and I dance, without moving my eyes from the butterfly

lying to myself if I had a dance with other creatures, I could forget the butterfly.

Turns out, lying to yourself is one of the greatest sins.

It made me go even crazier. Fall straight to the hell.

So, as the last thing I could do to help myself,

I went to and asked a psychiatrist, what’s the medicine for this OCD?

And he gave me a pill.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The butterfly pill.” He answered while smiling softly.

Surprised. But, I took it.

And the party ends, and the city rises, and the night dies.

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