「灰羽 」(AILES GRISES)
Grace Wen
1 March 2023
I can’t fathom why butterflies fly and
why they flap their wings so foolishly under
what kills them and what turns their mosaic bodies
into a myriad of rotting dirt.
Dirt is a laughable texture, is it not? I think
the juxtaposition of its plastic hums and melodic hues melt
into the whims of the world, the smells of bark and blues and
blood that have long fossilized from the vast and agonizing
emptiness that is time.
It oscillates, the vibrations of the wind, up and down
and all around, but through the hollow pangs
of the overcast fog, they may on occasion pierce through
the seeping bleeding gaps where metallic rays sink slowly,
slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, into the forlorn depths of
the dirt. From the sky to the ground, the spectral havens
above shackle all to their warm abodes beneath, these implanted
wings too gray to accept and too gray to forgive, all
which are cut short by the raw bitterness that rumbles
even more far under.
What cries in pain in depths of this abysmal cavern, what churns
in grotesque fury at all the screams and dreams wrought upon
their coagulated nude, what bears the wretched markings of that
horrific metallic sun, what carries with it the anguish of existence
and the static etchings of muted radio silence muted no longer
muted buzzing static scratches cacophonic nails on chalkboard
fizzling upwards bubbling outwards flapping flying floating and
A distraction here, a scribble there,
little crayon mazes sprawling and spilling over
the slit edges of white sheets, bleach and bark,
dancing to crushed cadences and whatever comes
to bear fruit in this little pink sodden mind.
I think I know why butterflies fly,
why they are so lovably foolish, how they are so
enraptured by their desires, laputa castles in the sky,
like a little child innocent to the fossils below and
the chimes that chant of their woes.
Perhaps they want to see.
They want to see the clouds.
why they flap their wings so foolishly under
what kills them and what turns their mosaic bodies
into a myriad of rotting dirt.
Dirt is a laughable texture, is it not? I think
the juxtaposition of its plastic hums and melodic hues melt
into the whims of the world, the smells of bark and blues and
blood that have long fossilized from the vast and agonizing
emptiness that is time.
It oscillates, the vibrations of the wind, up and down
and all around, but through the hollow pangs
of the overcast fog, they may on occasion pierce through
the seeping bleeding gaps where metallic rays sink slowly,
slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, into the forlorn depths of
the dirt. From the sky to the ground, the spectral havens
above shackle all to their warm abodes beneath, these implanted
wings too gray to accept and too gray to forgive, all
which are cut short by the raw bitterness that rumbles
even more far under.
What cries in pain in depths of this abysmal cavern, what churns
in grotesque fury at all the screams and dreams wrought upon
their coagulated nude, what bears the wretched markings of that
horrific metallic sun, what carries with it the anguish of existence
and the static etchings of muted radio silence muted no longer
muted buzzing static scratches cacophonic nails on chalkboard
fizzling upwards bubbling outwards flapping flying floating and
A distraction here, a scribble there,
little crayon mazes sprawling and spilling over
the slit edges of white sheets, bleach and bark,
dancing to crushed cadences and whatever comes
to bear fruit in this little pink sodden mind.
I think I know why butterflies fly,
why they are so lovably foolish, how they are so
enraptured by their desires, laputa castles in the sky,
like a little child innocent to the fossils below and
the chimes that chant of their woes.
Perhaps they want to see.
They want to see the clouds.
