Butterfly crept upon my shoulder,
eyes leap to her instincts kicks in,
mistaken for a bee, slam! ! !
Instantly, I recoil in regret, as
I see my hand tinged with beauty.
Blood, pieces of her wing, black,
due to my paranoia, of things like bees.
the source no more, time to wash
my hands.

by jonsie white

Other poems of WHITE (2)

Comments (1)

Poor Butterfly, OUCH. Very vibrant in your description. I felt it all the way to my cheek