All art is but a butterfly
Roams larger than our sights
Shows our minds how inconceivable
We are, how far behind.
We chase like lepidopterists leaping
Some trace of fallen grace.
The poets hold our hopes in keeping as a thought
If not a place.
Still its hollows we inhabit
As a bubble yet to burst,
We bring our fevers and our fancies to it,
Virgins to its birth.
But it never calms our raptures
What lives so far away
In worlds where myths are freshly fractured,
Nets can't capture prey
Where the sun in evening grandeur
Will glaze transcending hills
That speak as an eternal candle
Music of the real
While we, in death's embracing stillness
Mourn what never was—
What calls across the mortal distance,
Words that hear just us?
