As if slicing the long heated road to work,
A butterfly’s mirrors
Tumble down the space,
A streak of blue.

              On the tip of the blade
              Slowly climbing with an angle
              The depth of an early morning, intricate
              With silence, the bubbles raised their tiny legs
              Only to flow into the drain.

The sustained echoes of a soap bar,
Now hitting the soles of my skin shoes,
The velocity of emerging shoots breaking the plastered grounds, 
Teethed tires burst into the distance
After the rain.

              From where the cut is made, in the wastelands afar,
              The soft insect right here begins its days,
              Converting into the popping purple,
              The flash of instance.

As my feet move faster,
Some keep melting, the ingredient bridging
The sharply open gorge
Regains its shape
In front of the crosswalk.

              At the opposite end, a certain me is also standing by,
              Both are wrapped in chrysalides, hiding wet wings.
              What will dash out with the signal——
              Shines of shattered pieces?

The butterfly strays and crumbles.
The unfathomable color of the traffic light.