May 5, 2015

The Butterfly Room by Michael Holme

Her pulse had had promise;
a defiant camouflage.
It was Okay to assume 
because love’s hue’s a bright wash.

Michelle had fed a mummy;
empathetically: a Mistle thrush.
Suddenly loss and logic tussled 
in the Butterfly room.

Some expected gasps.
Online data scares.
The truth is that Rose was too pure.
Drops needn’t wet her head.

I was tired.
I lacked the adrenaline
that flooded Michelle’s veins
whilst time casually flirted with nature. 

We stayed over.
We even fought.
Rose tattooed our memories silently.
She’d probably prompt ink.

Later we kissed her head
with no option.
Some people’s humility starts crusades.
Rose was better than us. 


Michael Holme is a late forties UK writer specialising in poetry. He is also a pianist and an art collector. His website mirrors previous publications. His wisdom is “Embrace your aloneness.” 

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