When butterflies land on the road, they rarely move. And it's problematic, for a driver. |
I often find myself on Butterfly Road, That temporary, yet necessary, asphalt abode Where butterflies flock after emerging. And there, their lives, I'm accidentally purging. They do not fly away as I quickly approach. My wheel, without prejudice, squashes them like a roach. I often hope they've escaped, though I'm never certain. But for some poor souls, it's the final curtain. I try to put thoughts out of my mind, Like how my actions may seem unkind. Or how I might avoid death wherever I go By simply holding back and driving very slow. Whether music or time puts lead in my foot, Those insects on the road: I did not place, or put. They like the heat from the road, but none of the pain. The bodies are gone: washed away by the rain. If they saw the carcasses, they might learn to be wary And realize roadways are a place all too scary. Yes, I often find myself on Butterfly Road. Where lives are taken. Where beauty is sold At the price of a bleeding, grief-laden heart; Enough to rethink my journeys before they even start. Line Count: 22 |