2 o'clock of today (...and the rest of the 2 o'clocks in a lifetime)

Trample the soft-winged,

butterfly that flutter

past the sun-dried Earth

'til its satiny feel

meshes with the

cruel raggedness

of that not so long ago,

life-giving clump,

which death has found

through the scorching kiss

of the Sun

Add on the weight,

crush 'til drops of

pigments from the

dried-out veined wings kiss

the vastness of brown

lending, surrendering

the reds, and yellows, and greens

that once glinted

in all majesty with the

very kiss and golden touch

that betrayed it

to death

and once there's none

to squeeze in any more,

scoop the wings and the Earth,

no longer separate,

not anymore different entities,

no more distinct character,

but tightfully clumped

perhaps, eternally meshed

in which one's end is the other's own,

one's texture is the other's own sense of feel,

in which the other's beginning is both's start

squeeze, 'til the scent,

intoxicating in its pureness

extends into the seemingly inexistent air,

'til both color and scent,

and texture diffuse into the

air's vast expanse---

'til there's no more, 'til every part

and everything that defines both,

vanishes, gone...

but very much, equally,

particle by particle

fills the seamless expanse.