The Butterfly

Bitter waters rush over summers bleak and past,

but never can they cleanse the fetid streets of stench.

Now comes the winters' vulgar raging,

reminiscent of bloody battle, old, wasted and flailing.

In this tepid tempest of diffused musings, I stand

teased, tormented and battered by flaccid self-worth.

I pause, taking note of a small butterfly flitting and flapping
lighting on an upturned rubbish bin.
Its wings are sapphire its' body ruby.
The tiniest sliver of sun pierces through the cloud,
I see God, there but briefly, in this dazzling creature.
I reach out, longing to hold close this brittle beauty.
Alas, disturbed, it flitters and flaps to alight on another mans memory.
I am alone once more, but I will carry the butterfly with me always.