Could there be more
than just butterflies
in my stomach?
Like skeletons
buried deep,
deep in a forgotten place?
Deeper than my shallow lungs,
which are craving cool air.
But not as full as my eyes,
which only see with admiration.
Notice how the Moon is
never the same?
Until its bursting with light
that clutches every shadow.
Not even the fog can stop
its own shadow from dispersing.
Can you tell the difference
between butterflies and skeletons?
A garden from a cemetery?
The light from the dark?
Old haunts from a far
have floor boards that creak
and shelves full of dust.
The garden is where you dug
six feet deep,
and in the moon light,
is where the butterflies
will rest in peace.
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