She watches him.

Fists clenched and a mouth filled with silent rage.

Scars long healed ache as he thunders, heart black as ink

boney finger point and stinging lies spew from his mouth

with rancid spite and bile.


Flowers long dead cast shadows at the grave of a love long departed.

Another day

another fight

another fist into soft warm flesh.


Words vile and dark fall on deaf ears,

and where once they cast wounds deep now

she simply turns and smiles

closing the door one last time.




Author: Michael

Husband, dad,(ex)programmer, comic collector and proud Yorkshireman. I have no idea why im here or why im writing but i rather enjoy it. no great fan of punctuation;

14 thoughts on “Butterfly”

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