Butterflies Don’t Always Fly Free In Varanasi, they are checking for essences once again. The Sa…

Butterflies Don’t Always Fly Free



In Varanasi, they are checking for essences

once again. The Sacred Fire adjusts the

body, preparing the soul for Moksha, one

with the divine source of all life, Brahman.



Some relatives record hastily scribbled short

messages in relation to deep pain, shock,

trauma; but the keepers of the Universal

Light hold the insights that lay the foundation,



for the afterworld. The importance is balance

that stabilizes energy, rising from everything,

everywhere, in a continuous cycle of immanent,

transcendent reality.



There's a little voice inside me that questions

all this, dismissing it as being 'cultural', even

as I experience the mortal splendor of molten

mass compulsory in my sense of reason.



Could it be that there is a strong presence in

the powers of the waters of Ganges mysticism,

where all things never really come to an end but

go on forever?



My mother is dead and I fail to see the blue halo

of accompaniment that would have me kissing

the ground and singing praises to the sky. There

is no resurrection or reflection of such in her



eyes; just the blackest of night shattered by the

incoming threat of daylight where a dark bird's

last love call shall go unanswered. I'm stone, granite,

I profile the cynical, erasing names from my heart,



in my last ditch effort for survival. The cold keeps

me company, and I write about it, leaving the hurt

hidden under my skin. I can see the betrayal of the

gods. I'm a butterfly in confined air.