Butterfly wings flutter softly in angst-tightened stomachs,

the flutter is no more than whisper, and pounding

hearts easily cover it. If only those stubborn ears would

listen.

Sun burning bright, but they close their eyes. Close

everything

out. Don't let anything in.

If only those stubborn eyes would

see.

As though shutting it all out would make things better,

but it isn't all as hateful as they believe it to be.

Instead, they turn their backs on it,

rage and despair bubbling in a cauldron,

and bubbling over,

fuelled by fires, angry words.

Scents of childhood washed away by commercialized perfumes,

noses refusing to

smell.

If only they'd stop to smell the roses.

And of all a sudden, one does

just that.

It's all so light and dizzying.

It feels wonderfully new.

But it's not.

It's old.