The ghost of the butterfly stills haunts the light bulb,
Coming in nights of darkness when it is at rest,
Even the flapping of the wings of the dead butterfly,
Can still cause storms on the equator,
Maybe storms in the equators of leaking cups of tea,
Maybe just out of remembrance,
Maybe just out of respect.

The butterfly, like an illegal alien,
Was drawn to the city lights,
Lights with brightness well worth being scarified for,
Lights with brightness well worth being sacrificed for,
For one moment in the sun, it was worth it,
A culmination of a dream,
An ejaculation before the act,
A weightless gravity spin.

Did it know while still in the cocoon?
Did it peek through to see the temptation?
Was it being talked by inner voices?
Paving the way for what was to come,
Pointless – pointless – questions for the times when the answer dictates itself.