A Place Where Butterflies Don't Grow Poem by Kyle Schlicher

years have passed. it was
a place
of
mad memories
turned
sad
with the years.

it was
a place of destruction.
i recall
the barren scarred mountains,
pockmarked
landscapes.
the scent of dried blood
in the sunshine.

it was also a place
of remarkable
beauty.
lush undergrowth
in places
not yet
contaminated
by chemical warfare.
a place of blue skies
with the whitest of white clouds.

a place where at night
almost every star
overhead
was visible
in the blackest of all nights.

odd thing is all these years later
i do not recall
any birds
or
butterflies.

it was a place of missing dreams.
no friday nights with friends
after school.
no sleeping in
on saturday mornings.
weekend trips
to the record shop
were forgotten.

it was
mostly a place of death.
where
innocence
was left behind
in one
blinding flash after another.

but, strangely,
most of all,
it was a place
where
butterflies don't grow.


3-29-1992