a globe is but so fragile
and we are but butterflies
sipping madly on the golden globe
droplet of nectar
that empowers us to fly
our wings are but small
yet there are seven billion of us
the more madly we flap our wings
in unison
perhaps the faster
the fragile globe breaks
one day
we will land
and expect grass to catch us
and our feet will graze the ground
but we will taste
nothing but debris
we will look in surprise
and find seven billion of ourselves
floating in a beautiful island
where the ocean is too warm,
too high
and the dark oil sparkles
in the clouded sun
the fresh water is strewn
with bits and bobs of plastic
then our sick ghosts
will watch in surprise
at the golden globe
that became but a husk of hues
and one ghost says to the other:
"honestly, why
are we surprised
again?"
—notsappho
YOU ARE READING
to name a flower
Poetryaesthetic poems that crave interpretation roses painted with words instead of color spilled coffee that turns into ink painted canvases that sit silently, waiting that is the meaning of passion -•--•••
