Oath to my 10th Muse:

I'll write no odes to thine albescent face,
Nor long to touch thine argent hair,
I shall not sing, "He walks in grace...",
Nor seek what is hidden 'neath thine count'nance fair.
Few moments' effort have I put forth;
Of the fighting arts I possess't no ken,
But if you'll accept it for what it's worth—
Lord Dilandau, you have my pen.

Phyllis

o-O-o

The Butterfly Dream

I dreamed I was a butterfly
in a garden ablaze
with flame azaleas,
lilies, and roses,
narcissus, daffodils,
and tall, fragrant trees.
My wings, of tiny silken feathers, were scarlet,
like a maple leaf in autumn,
fluttering in a chill wind—
Crimson, edged with plush ebony.
And in this brilliant, sun-filled garden
I was never alone.

My companions had wings of indigo,
midnight blue, iridescent
when they caught the light,
and sparkled
when they moved in flight.
I led them in a breathless dance
over and around the flowers,
hour on elated hour.
We hid in the leaves
of the tall, fragrant trees,
(but not very well
because of our brightness and color)
Trembling patches of light dappled our wings.

Then, in the sequel to my dream
intruded a boy
who liked to play hero
with a sword in one hand;
the sword of a king.
In his other hand, for some strange reason,
he held a candle
dripping hot wax,
which burned tiny holes
in the blades of grass
as I watched with a hate and a fascination
that seemed familiar as if from some other life.
He lifted the candle, dripping wax, up to our tree
and burned my companions,
one by one,
and I failed to watch them fall
for my eyes were riveted
on the quivering flame
so that when he finally lifted the candle
up towards me,
it was too late
and I could only cry out
as I felt the burn.

I must have lost my mind between the searing pain
and watching the bodies
and wings of my companions
wither in the grass.
The boy was gone, but other hands came
to take me away.
I beat my charred wings
hard against those hands,
but they would not let me go
till they had sawed away
what was left of my screaming mind
leaving me to wallow
mired, buried, swamped, and choked by sorrow.

One day the storm clouds blew
into the garden,
heavy and lowering,
weeping freezing, bitter rain,
which soaked my broken wings
through and through with cold.
The flowers cringed as the lashing rain
beat them down,
crushed their petals,
and snapped their stems.
Leaves, ripped from their trees,
rushed through the garden
on a cold wind, wailing,
and shrieking like tormented souls.
My broken heart.
My tormented soul.

I flapped my tattered, broken wings
in limping flight,
alone in my plight,
out of that garden
once flooded by sun-fire,
and filled with butterflies that danced
through the green and gold.

2:52 PM, November 3, 2004

O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O

Constructive criticism is appreciated. Yes, I realize I erred in parts when it comes to capturing the character of Dilandau. Personally, I think if he ever lived through this "butterfly dream" he would 1) never crumble up poor, defenseless butterflies again and 2) think twice before burning people.