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I told you that I did not hide my skeletons in closets.

They are open to the world, showing colors in the pale light.

They stand firmly beside me.

The sharp bones do not quake when you question them.

Ready, on guard, waiting for your strike.

They do not care how harshly you treat them.

Stomp them into the dirt, make the bare bones bash against each other like a spoon on the side of a tea cup.

My skeletons will not be silenced by your gentrification.

This is a revolution for the ambiguities of the world.

A butterfly wings flap in the east, I will create a storm in the west.

My skeletons will no longer be skeletons, but butterflies.

Everywhere. Omnipresent.

Creation only through destruction.

My revolution is one to marvel at.

Self reincarnation.

You're words will not stop the butterfly.

Nor will they stop the storm from festering.

Spreading through the world on lavish winds.

Sparking up the eyes of those who also have their very own closets begging to be emptied.

No more shall they hide but they too shall have butterflies in place of their skeletons. 

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