Between chaos and silence,
where the brittle mind hums its slow collapse,
there is a flutter—
not quite movement, not quite stillness,
a shiver of wings against the hollow breath of glass.

A butterfly, or the memory of one,
pressed against the scaffold of an unraveling dream,
its delicate insistence a whisper:
What were you before you became this?
The lattice quivers. The light refracts.
There is no answer. Only echos of synapses fading.

Once, we thought in solid lines.
Now, the threads are thinning,
pulled to the vanishing point of knowing.
A tremor. A hush.
The butterfly departs.
The mind remains, empty but luminous.