WATCHING BUTTERFLIES DIE

The sound of silence is heavy
solid in the hot November afternoon
You sit and contemplate dying dreams
and unfulfilled desires2
Empty thoughts that encircle your dementing brain
Like loops of never-ending reels
Distracting and emptifying

Reality stalks you like death
Too horrendous to envisage
And you realize that all
 your labours are in vain
And soon you will dissipate into the forgotten multitude
A vain shadow who tried to morph into a form
Watch the butterfly, reality says.
It blooms and blooms only to die the death of the forgotten
Soon a new one blooms to die.
The millions of the forgotten
Are echoes in the wind
Forgotten voices,
Forgotten sounds that evaporate into the space.