Such bittersweet, fluttering hope
her eyelashes battering tears cheek-ward,
hands trembling to reach towards him
as his footsteps retreat, yet still she hopes
he'll turn back into her hungry arms.
But then he is gone as loneliness smiles.
Battle flag gripped tightly in the
rigor mortised fingers
of an eighteen year old bearer.
Blood spattering its countenance,
torn cloth still flapping bright colors
that stain the smoke burnt sky.
Heart skips a beat, then three,
fluttering, sputtering, spasming.
The old man fumbles his keys,
hoping to make the E.R. but falls
into his garage, face first,
a concrete decision, fate made for him.
Young lady balanced on a window ledge,
107 stories high, fire at her back
roasting her flesh, crisping her hair.
Dress flutters like a parachute,
insufficient for her weight, as she plummets
praying for ten seconds, then personally meeting God.
Hope flutters in many ways,
much like this paper in the wind,
the yammering pulse in my wrist,
and the endless brain synapses
that allow you to read
the butterfly paths of my thoughts.