A butterfly''s wings are crumpled paper on a sidewalk
Shattered dreams are shards of broken glass in the gutters of integrity
Hard truths peppered with white lies a sugary cough syrup coating the throat of humanity
What truly separates bullets from thoughts?
Daggers from words?
What physical law draws a line between spilled blood and artwork?
Pistols and paintbrushes?
A child''s hands, traced in chalk
Are spread wide against a bleak concrete canvas
''My fingertips could touch the stars"
They say
''If only I could reach past the bounds of this universe
''I could gather that universe in my hands.''
Discarded needles are a beauty lost to choices and a barrage of time and melting clocks
A butterfly''s wings are thoughts spread before us
A collage of bullets
A collection of words
Inflicted by daggers