Bottled angels break. The wind
whistles. It’s indifference stands: unchecked.
Like my coat of bastardized butterfly wings.
(My personal attempt at flutter.) I shutter
my mind’s eye. It sees far too many hues.
And I was never one for that brick
bastard’s road . . . Oh, my
shoes were red. (More blood than ruby,
if the truth be told.) And often clicked three times,
they landed . . . But Kansas? Out of the question.
Cut to the point: I fly with monkeys.
Sharp and dark and fueled by feraled fight.
“For claw and clamor”
is the only prayer I deem to keep.