Butterflies
We raise our hands:
you sever them at the wrist.
We lift our arms:
you measure us for a cross.
Where do we turn?
Our fingers bleed from scratching
our skulls in bewilderment.
They catch on the thorns
you so thoughtfully provided.
Stigmata?
No, you haven’t nailed us yet.
Great barbed hooks penetrate our bellies,
inflaming our guts.
Like live bait,
threaded to tempt Leviathan,
we squirm.
Like butterflies
awaiting your chloroform jar,
we tremble
Your collector’s pin is poised:
that final thrust will skewer our flanks
and claim us under glass.
Eternally.
rogermoorepoet 
Ouch! Painful visuals, even if they are metaphorical!
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Blas de Otero, roughly translated, is the source of the first image. The others are mainly mine but he was the springboard.
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Great! We’ve pinned ourselves to walls for too long of a dead time.
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I know the feeling … Hands up! Gotcha!
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No stigmta.d butterflies donn’t harm anyone bt human is enemy of our imazination’s butterfly n nailed our emotions.
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Very well written
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Thank you. It’s a Golden Oldie, recalled and revised for my next book, Spain: Bottled Sun and Bull’s Blood. So pleased you appreciate it!
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