Why do you suppose
when I envision butterflies on the breeze,
Somewhere from deep in my psyche
Mothra materializes in a tempest?
Why is my happy place always
on the high seas in a hurricane?
The unstrung, restless beating of my heart,
endangered by the power of a nature not my own.
Is it naive to think I will have no regrets
for putting myself in the eye of the storm?
Chaos- the poor, disabled man’s adventure.
I crave exhilaration before extinction.
Am I a lunatic?
Or simply a philosopher?