…of death

Deep breaths in and out, I can’t do this anymore
I hear the rattle in my chest, the sharp touch of the blade
that in my imagination, explains the pain
that accompanies each inhale and each exhale
now breathless, light headed
I feel butterflies rising from my depths
their beating wings creating a soft breeze
that brings me no relief, instead, their silken touch
as they make their escape in tremulous motion
re-creates exquisite pain that swims through my veins
as my heart begins beating in time with their wings
a rapid pace that I cannot control
my breathing now laboured
the rattle out of step, no rhythm no rhyme
and the butterflies sense it is time
the circadian rhythm of death
like the flowers close their petals
to protect themselves from the night
my heart is fleeing the darkness, aching to reach the light
where the butterflies are circling in gentle arcs around my soul
lifting me limp and weightless
and in the moment peace descends upon me
the only sound, the soft winds, raised by their silent wings
© Ann Bagnall