For Chris
My heart flutters inside my chest
like a blood red butterfly
frantically trapped in a wire cage
full of rage
knowing its life span is short
Houston, we have a problem,
mission abort.
Crush the butterfly in your trembling hand,
blood soaked sand
under your feet
the secret you cannot dare repeat,
iron fist to stem the weakling's tremors,
do you remember?
'Cause the porch hammock of childhood
has long rotted away
and the day
the day
you'll never forget,
unable to wipe the images from your mind
after all this time
Still fresh and vibrant as you roll over,
the seventeenth of October
the day that time ended for you,
lips turning blue,
relive it every time you're not distracted,
ambushed and attacked it
blinds you to life
and then he took a knife
and you know it will never end
its part of your being
warping all feeling
and you understand completely
what drove him mad
and it's so sad
that genetically he was more like
you than any other,
my brother,
my brother.
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