O) The Butterfly

The rhythmic chugging of the train has driven me to slumber.
Ensconced in dark oblivion I neither hear, nor see,
Nor smell, nor taste, nor touch it, but still I know it's there.
A tiny speck of brightness, a fragment of the air.
But different from the hazy smog that beats upon its wings,
As delicate as thought, those wings that whisper such sweet
things.

I stop the train and smash the door, leave station 8 behind
And run along my vision, a tunnel under time,
Woken from my sleep, my one-way ticket torn in two,
Destination far away, forgotten in pursuit.
The butterfly ahead of me is flitting between worlds
So when I reach and close my hand I capture emptiness.
Then the creature reappears, like ducks submerged in lakes,
Mocking me and laughing at my heartfelt, feeble chase.
Gracefully it swoops and dives above a sunlit stream;
I glimpse its clear reflection, flat contours like a dream,
I plunge into the water to drink in what I see,
But ripples crack the image, this elusive mystery.
I wonder if this creature, so fragile and so small
Is just a cruel delusion that has me in its thrall.
Before I find an answer, my soul begins to tire,
The butterfly more distant, a far pinprick of fire.

I hear a rhythmic chugging and I see the railway line.
The smashed door welcomes me into the bowels of station 9.
Dark oblivion - the butterfly another land,
Far from my world of sleep, my one-way ticket in my hand.