Love Butterflies Are Not Fairies Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love, I need nectar; I need heavenly stars
Not cellars with cold mumbling pipes in the dark
Or ash-yellow morning fields wet with dew
I need to chew on midnight silken waterfalls
Tantalizing echoes that never just emptily dissolve?

Oh, there may be skeletons under the floorboards
And flowers in the brambles of a nearby orchard
There may be folklore about rich Indian Rajas
And even stories about white mythical unicorns.
But let us talk about magic crystals and even you.

About all kinds of mannerisms, algorithms
Things that go bump in the night
Things that splutter into prisms of light
Oh, and maybe even me and you.
Let us talk without cynicism or even baseless suspicions.

Butterflies are not fairies,
And moths are not witches
One is devotedly loved while the other, don't hold your breath.
The-other-quite honestly, is seen as the kiss of death.
If I'm left like an apple in the pantry, saved yet bereft all at sea.

Love, I'd rather rot like a bruised fruit
And fall into the night, rolling endlessly
Never again be tantalized by-your-eyes
Never again chew the fat again with you
Love butterflies are not fairies
And moths are not witches
But they might as well be it's written all over your face.
It might as well be Lepidoptera dust,
just drifting away, trying to save my soul alone.