Of Dark Wings

I came home full of hope...

that stuff  that dreams create,
gauzy remnants of realism
as if all baggage were on the carousel
and the plane had left the terminal
lighter.

But the black butterfly was flitting about my door

relentlessly battering its night wings against my dark wood
and neither of us seemed to know where the light was anymore.
My delicacies were abraded
from the desire to be infused with brightness...
and the work. The WORK required to be so.
I begged that insect to fly far away,
with no return flight.

I am not of that darkness

anymore.