the butcher and the butterfly

[grey helm]

consider this said the butcher to the butterfly,
the strands offibre that hold your wings together.
the strands of fibre in the bones that feebly break.
he sat stained absent minded pondering upon the green fairy.
These my love are the things that matter,
the conjoining words in a sentence that could svae someones existance.
the answers to a question you couldnt understand
the riddles of enjoyment in prostatic synthasis that make those trees weep.
he touched his chin, the butcher smiled and smashed the jar he jailed the butterfly within.
one breath of frsh air after 20years dead.