Are frailty, burning matchsticks in the daylight- <br />Kindled tallow in the classrooms, <br />In smoldering nuisances- <br />Piglets in the shivering cold rooms, under the <br />The dressing rooms of her Siamese eyes <br />Which are moons, <br />Wounded, blue and wonderful, and filled with <br />Frightened animals that live <br />In her bareness’s <br />And take shelter in her nakedness- <br />And she is up there, <br />Blackened off eye, but she pretends to <br />Cry as she looks down <br />Over the smoldering crops of the funerals <br />Of our carnivals- <br />The Ferris Wheels resting with the butterflies <br />Who whisper to them of their own <br />Metamorphosis- <br />But the Ferris Wheels are envious, for they <br />Know they shall never change.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/resting-with-the-butterflies/
