The monsters are sometimes hidden but are always there.

It flies in the beauty of the daylight.

Its wings push the hot air

around it as it leaps

and nearly crashes into the lavenders.

The wings are white, desperate

not to be stained

by this grey

darkness that follows them.

The grey darkness always

lingers a step or two behind it

as it hides in its own darkness.

The butterfly tries to cry out,

but its mouth is stitched shut with black ink.

The butterfly.

Its wings flap around,

carrying the butterfly

across the province

as it's desperate

for an escape. Maybe

this little getaway will make things all better.

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