My Black Butterfly

I have a little black butterfly,

flapping phantom wings

against the nature of noon,

dead-sun glitter reflects

harsh like stars beneath eyelids.

I dream of another transformation,

skin learning to feel like silk,

vision creeping past the walls

built by reality and logic.

I will fly too, with charcoal grasps

into the void of breath.

I'm no butterfly.

I have no means for flight.

but I still look down

on the worm with wings,

feeling pity for the frailty

beauty requires to turn the sky

into a shadow.

I am the sun that needs no change

to wake the world.