"Falling"

It would be so easy just to snap,
to just go falling down,
but I'm not Michael Douglas
and I don't want to drown.

The drowning would be easy,
it's the fall that breaks your heart
as finding you're the demon,
learning you're the nightmare,
discovering you're the problem,
confounds my blackest art
in my imaginary part
and that sets to whirling motion
a cyclonic roar of butterflies
that never feel a thing.

They're the butterflies of blues
and you've heard them roar before
you listen for them sneezing
until it blows shut the door.

I envy them their flying,
and the bliss they seem to find
until one's eaten by a Raven
and the others fly right by.

Why are they not affected
when the wind roars such a storm
but the sun shines bright upon them
and it keeps them softly warm.