Frailty and a Butterfly Soul

he flinches in the light,

head down,

checking himself for sins

he might have missed

when he tried

to scrub the darkness away,

but his soul is frail

like butterfly wings,

and he opened holes

beneath the mist

he wears as skin,

shaped like the bristles

of whiskey and cigarette burns,

harsh like good intention

possessed by weakness.

but there is no door

in the cocoon

shaped for re-entry,

no wisp of nature's breath

that forms a current

back to the beginning,

no passage beneath the clock,

but he rises, knowing,

broken wings

can still glide home.