Allen’s remarks about his poem:
“Inspired by an image I once saw on the Internet.
It truly did have an quite unexpected effect on me.
Sadly, I never bookmarked it.”
A room where sunlight shines all day;
high enough to catch the passing wings
who fall under his charming spell.
White walls frame the curtainless space
and beg for more than the one small patch
of fabric in an ornate frame. Ha!
He tells them that he is a designer!
A designer of white wedding dresses …
and so they flutter into this space.
There is a dress. It hangs perpetual –
sheathed in a clear plastic bag –
from the empty picture rail, beside the bed.
There is a camera on a stand
and it captures images of his lies
and of the poor butterflies it sees
trapped by the sparkling promises
that slip so easily from his plump
and somewhat ugly lips.
A guitar is propped against a wall,
its strings silent and untuned…
and a mirror propped on the chair.
The mirror reflects the room’s time:
it is uncounted as in a dream.
While bit by bit he pulls their wings apart …
slipping a hooped petticoat up
over white nylon clad legs,
and encrusted high heels.
Stage by stage they are bitten
by the mendacious teeth …
“you can be my beautiful model …
let me take a shot of this…” – Click!
Hands that clumsily touch virgin skin;
eyes fascinated by sparkling wings
and pure unadulterated youthful flesh;
hands that tremble uncontrolled
trying to disguise their treason.
Sometimes they die quietly –
giving up their bodies on the bed
and leaving later, virgin dead,
dirtied by the dust of moths.
Or else, with wings wide open,
they perchance to see the lies
(before the dark mantis flies)
and manage to escape with innocence
unsullied … virgo intactus.
But this one –
younger than the rest –
mortified by her new greyness,
ran from the bed
and launched herself
through the open window ….
She spread her wings
into the arms of Morpheus waiting.
© Allen Ansell 2021