I was driving down the highway
toward the end of the day.
A butterfly flew into my
windshield and died.
It was beautiful
and its
death made me sad.
It had lost its only life.
It would never have another.
I kept on driving down the highway.
I no longer pray to keep the airplanes up.
Sometimes we find there is no answer
when we seek the reason why.
For all are cockroaches in His sight
and every one deserves to die.
The world is ending with a whimper
and it sounds a lot like this:
"You've got your thirty pieces of silver.
Come and give your man a kiss."
Sometimes the cockroach doesn't die.
Sometimes he just crawls away,
hides silently in the darkness,
and comes back another day.
As I embark upon my futile quest ⬅
I'm aware that a cockroach named Lancelot
has stayed behind, and is creeping around the castle
with intentions of wooing my Guinevere.
Ah, but it's an innocent relationship (they say),
like David's friendship with Bathsheba.
He only wants to talk to her,
likes her portraits, wants to watch her bathing,
and be with her whenever he can.
And she - she wants to be with him too,
as innocently as before, though she denies it.
She tries to keep it a secret from herself and me.
So now, the writing's on the wall.
Some great calamity will eventually come of this.
Nothing can stop it. Someone is bound to get hurt.
History always seems to repeat itself for poor Guinevere.
She never seems to learn her lesson.
She never recognizes her mistake.
And I - I just continue on,
doing my best to keep her happy,
trying hard to conceal my sorrow and fear,
especially my fear of cockroaches.
That's why I always say
that the only good cockroach is a dead cockroach.
I don't think I'll ever find that stupid grail.
The butterfly with the broken wing
knows that he shall never be
a caterpillar again.
The caterpillar has much to
look forward to.
💀 slow suicide by alcohol poisoning.
The butterfly with the broken wing,
his body and spirit crushed,
unable to fly, unable to crawl,
struggles without purpose
on the tinted glass
whose existence has contributed
to his final moment.
The wiper blade,
without a hint of malice,
scrapes his remains
and sends him on his final
unconscious flight,
powered by the wind,
steered by fate,
until he winds up in the dust
on the side of the road.
What happens to the body
once the spirit is gone
is of no importance
to the former caterpillar.
There is no importance.
Those days are gone.
There will be no others.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
This is where the children go to weep: sleep.
This is where the gypsies go when they retire.
Now they're countin' on you kid and your famous cold feet.
But if everything rolls around again,
does that mean we are free?
If everything rolls around again,
does that mean we don't have to follow the grail?
We can go ahead and swallow our tails
and then just wait and see?
If everything rolls around again,
what about the ceremonies in our beds,
the crushed flowers in our heads?
The hope and the smoke and the sleet,
and the sad recurring dream,
the thirsty kisses in the rain,
and the promise only the dead can keep?
Is that when we're really free?
Is that when we're really free?
Simon Joyner (The Only Living Boy in Omaha)
Τέλος 💀
Es ist was es ist.
(Don't want no service. Just burn me up. 🦋
Throw my ashes in the trash.
No one gave a damn about me anyway.)
Ron