The only cure is madness.
Yellow butterflies that come and go,
Appearing in the night like specks of light,
Phantoms from above, perhaps below,
Maybe the Other Side, the Summer Lands,
The Golden World, the place
With no end where all is well and
Shakespeare dances with Morgan la Fey,
Camelot is real and the planet stopped
Moving on April 1st, 1912.
Titanic did not sink.
No archduke died. There was no atom
Bomb falling from Japanese skies,
No Korea divided, no Vietnam,
No guerrilla in Latina American jungles,
No economic break down,
No taking Wall Street,
No Aleppo turned to carcass,
No murder in Caracas,
No toddlers face down
On a Turkish beach.
They come and go from my mind,
These yellow butterflies.
The yank me away from the thickness
Of my bad dark. No velvety
Night for lovers to kiss under,
My bad darkness. No cosy,
Warm, mother’s womb.
It is more like tar, sticky mud, quick sand.
Sucking me, drinking me, sweeping away all
The beauty from the world.
And they come, my yellow butterflies.
Hook me, pull me, save me,
As they chant my name,
And remind me of the tea party
At the foot of the Everest.
And I know that they
Cannot be real.
And I know that butterflies
Cannot possible speak my name.
And I know I will never make it
In time to the meeting at Everest.
But I hold on to them, just the same,
To yellow butterflies, my golden feys.
I shall send my apologies tomorrow.
And reschedule the party
For another day.