The Butterfly’s Journey

alone the butterfly
beats its wings, which are
its hands, and on the air
like some rare beetles it
fleeting plots descent,
but addicted to the thrill
of alchemy, which unconscious
is its thoughts instead,
the butterfly ascends, now
lone but soon with holy,
unheard signals, and with
a widow’s exacting dance
summons clouds of other
dreamers—now they in haste
arrange what would be swords,
standards, brass horns and
praying hands toward
the gross macrocosmic
(understand, the sky as
spirits see it) wishing pool,
antechamber of ascended
angels—they, no longer
hearing screams, and no longer
lost in man’s great reflecting
telescope (in which things
far-off sadly danceless move,
say nothing and in moments
decide themselves unreal again),
phase through, enter bliss,
endless dancing, fathomless light,
their nightmare’s end, the spirit’s

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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