secrets and butterflies

i have a little white-wing
resting on my tongue
wild and white and whispering
he sits,

inside him are the tools we need
to take the world by storm–
and bring it stone by tripping stone
to lay upon our feet.

i have a little white-wing
always at my side,
soft and safe and subtle, he
brushes my heels at times–

when in danger i stand upon
the world as we both know;
reveal and perish is the rule,
so mum’s the sacred word.

i have a little white-wing,
resting on my tongue,
awaiting his moment to burst the dam
and flood/search/destroy.

careful, careful, tippy-toe
around the words not said.
mum’s the word, my love.

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