Butterfly and Wasp

The rain starts
Deep thoughts switch
Critical examinations
My ideas?

Flow, wither, golden seed
Within whatever seed so empty
Stone is grey and our soul slides past no dreams

Souls are wild.
At least not mine
Fragments are least
I ponder over a pungent caffé

Future, now
Decrying futility, superficiality
A depersonalised “me”
If this could really exist

The weight, slips away as my mind
Concurrent with fleeting disordered trust
As my muse, with no memory
Discordant in her own self

Stifling of creating hands
Trapped I know I am
Where to go, crisis of our own minds
To float away, need away, I trap you

A butterfly in a net
The cruelty of my heart
Disorder of the soul, do I have?
Never knowing why you feel as you do

I, the Wasp in a window

Has the rain finally ended?.

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

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