Butterfly?

Butterfly?

Epihany

The same stubborn scenario
The same view every night
A silhouette, close to the edge
A moth under the light
The echo of my thoughts
On infinite repeat
A schizophrenic mind field
Of two and a half feet

Turned one hundred and eighty
In a blanketed cocoon
A butterfly to a moth
Under the light of the moon
A stark and palpable silence
An insurmountable rut
Urges, kept at arm’s length
Until my eyes flutter shut

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this storm
From the cold of my creation
The bitter back to the warm
From this tempest in a teapot
 These chilling winds of blame
 The frigid reality each night
The moth back to the flame

An exasperating tug of war
Across a span of diminished hope
There has to be some solace
Near the end of my rope
Nothing that I can do or say
Changes, impervious to gain
The collateral damage is done
A consequence to the pain

So many months, eaten away
The thin fabric of a ruse
Resentful of my own creation
 A moth disguised as a muse
Rose-coloured tunnel vision?
Wishful thinking all along?

For the sanity of lost time
It would help if I was wrong

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this regret
From the pall of uncertainty
That hangs over me yet
From the now back to the then
The difference of day to night
To open arms and an open mind
To a butterfly, in a better light

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Diminished

Diminished

Choices you make
are directly proportional
to the lessons
that you learn.
Experience will tell you
that change is necessary
when the investment
exceeds the return.

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The newness

of what you have.
A solid foundation.
Love and mutual respect.
Living under one roof.
Rich with time together.
Better than you hoped for.
More than you expect.

Weeks, inevitably
become years.
Variable inputs
become a distraction.
You notice the flame
is slowly fading.
You light the match,
 see little reaction.

The daily grind
becomes unacceptable.
What your heart lacks,
your heart yearns.
The input
exceeds the output.
The law of
diminishing returns.


You feel the emptiness

of the disconnect.
A well of time
not spent.
Lost hours
consumed, alone.
Wondering
where the time went.

Wanting more,
but getting far less.
Supply
versus demand.
The slippery slope
of complacency.
You mention it,
they don’t understand.

You only have
to see it once.
A beleaguered fire,
flickering as it burns.
Flamed, mostly,
by all that one gives.
Eventually burnt out,
by diminished returns.
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