By: Linda M Crate

i. we are over
like july now forgotten
by snow white
winter,
and his chariots of ice
there is no more
red
because it had to end.

ii. the butterflies
had fallen into the blackness
of death dead before
their time
like the whispers you danced
in my ears
that signified nothing but
a premature funeral.

iii. you saw my broken heart and
handed me dead butterflies,
and i took them because i wanted
to heal the death in you but
instead you whispered black in an
attempt to make me forget july
forever, but it is my lifesblood this red
and so i forgot you instead.