Poisoned Wings and Butterflies

I hate the word love

 and all the baggage that it curtails.

All the broken fingers

and bitter cowardice.

The burning testimonies

and the distant, fading memories

 

It is all but a facade.

A comfort zone

made of rusty nails.

Where good people change

and hearts splinter

into a thousand shards of broken glass.

 

Love is all

but a scar upon an open gash.

The chemical mixed with the bloodstains.

A butterfly with poisoned wings

flying,

into the dead of an endless night.

 

Reviews

[patricia]

A well composed poem, good imagery...good subject, some memorable lines, thanks.