by Than Pence
When butterflies land on the road, they rarely move. And it's problematic, for a driver.
|I often find myself on Butterfly Road,
That temporary, yet necessary, asphalt abode
Where butterflies flock after emerging.
And there, their lives, I'm accidentally purging.
They do not fly away as I quickly approach.
My wheel, without prejudice, squashes them like a roach.
I often hope they've escaped, though I'm never certain.
But for some poor souls, it's the final curtain.
I try to put thoughts out of my mind,
Like how my actions may seem unkind.
Or how I might avoid death wherever I go
By simply holding back and driving very slow.
Whether music or time puts lead in my foot,
Those insects on the road: I did not place, or put.
They like the heat from the road, but none of the pain.
The bodies are gone: washed away by the rain.
If they saw the carcasses, they might learn to be wary
And realize roadways are a place all too scary.
Yes, I often find myself on Butterfly Road.
Where lives are taken. Where beauty is sold
At the price of a bleeding, grief-laden heart;
Enough to rethink my journeys before they even start.
Line Count: 22