Somewhere a butterfly. Luminous, orange,

part of the sun, a shadow of a soul,

an echo of a heartbeat, fragments

of things that once existed, now pieces of death.

Only dust remains.

Lips stained grey with dying syllables

and unspoken prose. Skin through which

the world glitters, an endless gnarled forest

thick with the same moonlight fog. A rustling,

breaths that bleed, black drips from ruptured veins

into a broken body.

Only dust remains.


4 thoughts on “Dust

  1. Reblogged this on 21 Shades of Blue and commented:
    “I could think of any moment and see him weaved throughout it. It was as though his soul was interwoven with mine”
    ― M.R. Field, Fragments (Running On Empty, #1).


    “So much of life is invisible, inscrutable: layers of thoughts, feelings, outward events entwined with secrecies, ambiguities, ambivalences, obscurities, darknesses strongly present even to the one who’s lived it- maybe especially to the one who’s lived it. I didn’t seek to find her, wandered instead within and among her fragments of language-notebooks, drafts, journals, fictions, letters, essays, and found there whole worlds like spinning planets, lived in their cold light and burning light, wondering where I was, where they might take me. Curious, I heard a monster’s voice and followed-”
    ― Laurie Sheck, A Monster’s Notes

  2. Wow! This spoke to me so deeply…it reminded me of my Grandmother…I watched her die for two weeks due to ovarian cancer. This piece is beautiful…thank you.

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