Butterflies Don’t Always Fly Free
By Theresa C. Newbill
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,
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.
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Theresa C. Newbill is a is a self described free spirit and former elementary school teacher turned writer. Her work has been widely published in various print and online magazines and she has received numerous awards for her writing.
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