Silken Butterfly

I am violated. I am, as she's been raped, my secret crevice unclothed. My nakedness revealed unto all, spread across blood lines, one unto another. They reveling in their own fantasies like birds of prey about me, picking small grains out of cow pies today, soiling their own spirit scratching in manure, dirt becomes their feet, then sitting on a wire and squawking unto one another, stories from the deep. Scurrying along in their minds picking up the filth they can dream up from their depths, of wonder, "is this his folly or is this her folly", while laughter's echo rummages through her mind, "maybe that, or is he or she, does this or that“, indulgence questions from a deep dark vat? What is it, to take intense pleasure and satisfaction in the quiet confines of the secret whispers, balancing their judgments, preparing executions? Scorn or forgiveness, love or hate or toy with her until our pleasures return to us, another date. This is when they can feel like gods, decisions on another’s fate. Cast into the never lands, beat with the staff of Moses, or shod in the chains of their love to be whipped on another day. She is as prey, jostled in and about their feeling frenzy, tossed to and fro as each takes a turn with her, pieces float to the depths. Before too long, perhaps, they will continue on, in search for more prey, while she's left to pick up her pieces, patching her bleeding soul from her breeched confines. Wounded, her spirit limps, to carry on, as she embrace another day, in search of boundary’s to pamper her wounds if she may, dressed with crepe's of fuchsia and silken bindings, until wings of silken butterflies can carry her away.