fluttery wings of butterflies arise from their traditional home where they can do no harm and invade a mind so recently strained and rested and shielded and braced or buoyed, and can there be harm in joy and beauty and the promise of future love or is that how the crevices of vulnerability widen into an abyss of unpent emotion wide and freefalling
can there be great happiness great joy flights of fancy and epiphanies of sensations can there be ecstasy without the danger of the depths the deeps of sorrow or confusion or anger or hurt or even mere disappointment
the elixir does not muffle does not anchor does not weigh down the billowing clouds that pull up with cable-like strength the tiny basket of rationality that fill with the winds of passion or hopes or dreams and take one flying
it makes the depths seem safer somehow, to tread over on such narrow bridges of unsteady foundation
it rewards the ventures prolongs the dreamy after state of bliss
it guards not against the beast the babe the blissful tears of incoherence
words these are, but will there be meaning in the morning
and still i venture anew and hold the past worthy coin of experience not heavy burden of snares and mazes
i remember when the prosaic daunted me and now bravely (foolishly?) dare the future
