Black Butterflies
Black butterflies flutter through the courtyard carelessly,
their folly flitting through variegated foliage, creating
worlds so breathtaking so as to not be real, just as
imperial belladonna bows in reverence to Mother,
thankful for the necrotic nectar that will soon
be on their dying breath
Black butterflies drink turtle's tears to race streetlights
past yellow tape, the words that read "Do Not Cross"
a foreign language for anthromorphs with velvet eyes
on their back, giving insider views, behind the lines
declining the advances of bluebonnets, fixated
on Iris's crescent wings
Black butterflies are sticklers about their traditions,
many may even call them creatures of habit, but
they progressed their ideas about chrysalises
after watching their cousins crawling out of
cocoons, knowing there's no better way to
live than in spun silk
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