Pieces of Moonbeams

C: butterflies on my chest

they said an angel's wings
should look like what we deemed to see at the heavens.
but—one can never knew that
butterflies have angel's wings too, in disguise.

without halo; with muffled antennas
with silent fluttering of wings in the air.
colors in white, yellow, and blue;
a pair of small wings, flying above you.

flying was the blue birds there—
kissing nectars; butterflies ride in the air.
they don't seem like birds at all;
birds sing songs but they never do.
us humans hum with them too,
but we rarely do; for us who've
composed different language
yet we still make the same song to sing.

at my death bed—when melancholic beat of drums
stifled even the silence that the death brings;
i love my chest to be filled with butterflies.

how i love different shades of butterflies
sprinkle their lovely colors at top of my coffin.
while i feel the death's hands crossing into mine—
should i grab it as well & shake hands?

then all the layers of existence will be whole again.
for the roots of death will spring from existence, then.

then could i see what we deemed to see
at the heavens—where splashes of colors couldn't
overflow even the edges of our iris & pupils.

where an angel's wings should looked like
what we deemed to see at the heaven's gate—
butterflies, flowers, white clouds, blue sky.
forest on the void of air. a paradise.
dripping air flowing consciousness.
an escape from aliveness.

they're still there: flying on flowers on topsoil--
brimming with sparkles—humming vibrations in silence:
singing songs. solemn singing. sad songs.

dear flower: give in such mornings for them to fly.
for we give bits of our skin to the butterflies.
hungry proboscis shaking. i catch my soul from falling.
let not sorrow to come—spare some wishes to some.

perching my fading skin: i stand there;
as i see castles & kingdoms falling into pieces
as i peek through the window; how the earthlings
plant a tree, grow them, and climb ontop of them:
but still couldn't see what the scenery
looks like on top of the greeny hills;
& still couldn't see how the planets
revolve around the sun.

i let them caress my hair gently
as i let my consciousness fade in silence.
kissing my deflating chest for me
to happily sing with them—

and i promise not to sing songs—
i was not with blue birds.
i was with butterflies
on my chest.

July 12, 2023
von