Motor Butterfly
Tie it down to a post:
every boast in the ether looking to find a suitable host
Bowstrings pulled in riposte,
a lighthouse to a coast in oceans bereft of boats
A full throated song cried hoarse
in pride over a morsel of dried remorse
A rorschach slide show,
ghosts on old films left exposed
Predisposition to visions scoped
whichever way the fire’s stoked
Gale winds
from wings stroked tide force
by fins of a thin frame slide molt
(Rejected on August 2020)