Dust
The life of a butterfly
measured in days
rolls like thunder across my screen
scrolling, rolling
for others to turn to
dust
to misinterpret
till I burst
from my cocoon
years from now
another life in hand.
Voices from the past will praise
what has become
fashionable
though they treated it with disdain
in this life of mine
spitting on the very screen that reflects my soul
kicking till i run and cringe
in a corner
bleeding
crying
dyin'
though not this time again;
I'll be forced to live to hear more
of others,
of other's
while the dust settles
and there is nothing I can do
to remove it.
Mr. Hoover, where are you now?
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