Dreams die like butterflies
caught in a rainstorm
they start-off as heroes, flying towards the sun
fields of tulips
red and white
colors, flowing into art—painted on the imagination
grasshoppers, demanding, census
and the butterflies burned out of the sky.
Every failure ends in poetry
Every poet, believes they are painting flowers for their butterfly dreams
and the locusts land, eating the brains of momma’s boys and sensitive men
feasting on their flower petals
blowing, in the wind.
Accountability, is a strange word
for the artist, who thinks he is special
Suddenly, he is only a body
without any wings
without any color
just an ant, marching in unison
to his eventual, execution.
Poetry is the last chance
When it dies
it wilts like a flower
the last bit of beauty fades
from the stained-glass wings of his cathedral tower
where he worshiped
in the sun,
in the rain.