/the ballad of George, the lover/ (philo viveró) <br />
 <br />
what would it take to push the curtains aside? <br />
what would it take to get behind the wall <br />
that those scared girls have built up <br />
without smearing their dreams out across the broken bricks? <br />
 <br />
a rapist sits poised behind his masks <br />
as he endeavours to get past her walls <br />
and when he does, he only breaks her wings <br />
but he's too brutish to see his destruction <br />
and can only look into the sky and ask <br />
"George? why is she so limp in my arms?" <br />
then wait for George's staccato reply <br />
 <br />
and the rapist lies limp in the girl's arms <br />
but it's no consolation, the ice burns in her head <br />
the freeze-flame scars her thighs and she walks cautiously now <br />
 <br />
pausing to finger the serrated knife <br />
and when i reach out to stroke her cheek <br />
and unfasten the clasp of her lace <br />
and watch it fall away <br />
just at that moment her cotton wisp hits the ground <br />
and my head is bowed and my gaze diverted down <br />
i catch a hint of the flashing gleam out the corner of my eye <br />
the blood pours out my body and the butterfly flits away <br />
on the narrow and careful-crafted wasp's wings <br />
the rapist was the butterfly's cocoon <br />
what a sad metamorphosis, i said <br />
and listened for George's staccato reply  <br />
 <br />