A Tropical Butterfly in an Evil Nation
An asphalt colored butterfly flicks low
Across the street, a little bit above
The lead-like paving; gray and light gray go
Afluttering in flecks as if a dove,
A very tiny 2D dove with specks on specks
For wings, were on its random zigzag way
Across the pathway of a devil’s hex,
Across the ashes of Hell’s burnt array
Of souls. The heat is rising from the road
But then the little angel substitute
Is buoyed up because it has no load
Of vile regrets to drag down its pursuit.
..Pursuit of what? It doesn’t try to climb.
….Its speckled eyes are blind to hardened crime.