Butterflies,
oozing from
the branching off, of sketches
gushing through the slashes
of sculptors' scratches,
dashing
out of pomegranates' red gashes
out of the pomegranates shell
of our exasperating sweet yet burning rashes,
in the hoard of all of the sapphire stashes,
when the daylight crashes
on the gushing zephyr,
the marriage of crimson sparkles
and the dusk’s ashes,
when the red wine
bloom from the bruise of the grapes smashes,
when
the poetry is splashing,
in ruby-red erupting
so dashingly
flashing
when against the night
it thrashes.
