'That Flying-Dust'

Perhaps, I think I should start off with, I will
never be a good poet and
perhaps I will never write poetry.
It's another butterfly I
cleave onto. I know the
magic dust will smear off onto my fingertips with
the first touch, though.
Just like the time
in Freya's garden, the girl next door, when we
clapped our hands around the blurs of yellow and
red and black, purple, and blue; a crushed wing,
a dislocated stem-like leg, whiskerlike antennas torn,
and a silence tainted by
guilt would fall on our chests
and we would drop the body. Pretend
it had never happened, even when at
night, in bed, I would roll my fingers over
the dusty, musky powder, as
though I'd been handling a gun. I would fall
into sleep, guilt evaded and peace found,
the temporary peace one finds in ignorance, Ignorance
is bliss, they will say, but the bliss never lasts, like
the paintbrush in my hand fell out
of my grasp
like an autumn leaf, old, rotten in water,
my mind cold and bruised
after being beaten for imagination,
whom Bastille takes out for tea
Perhaps I'll see them one day
the two of them
talking
from the shadows
and see their, Imagination's, face
write about the creases by their eyes
the music of their voice
the gleam of their lips in the
summer light, animated with words of
inspiration
that I never gave birth to,
never carried in my arms
and loved and cherished
but glimpsed in snippets
from my finger-smeared window,
at trees silent as me
and a sky just as
empty. They never helped.