Hold your breath, count to three

Hold your breath, envelop it in your mouths    
consoling warmth, and count to three.    
Preserve the other queuing numbers    
in the psychological ice chamber,    
for a time you may need them more.    
Logic and desire collide under slumped eyes,    
rendering you blind and begging    
at reality’s feet.    
   
Butterfly wings preen on display    
beneath your eyelids; pulsating colours    
wander in and out as they please.    
Frequently they form images,    
but you avert your attention,    
as they hold your downfall in    
a twist of a shape.    
   
They pin your Achilles' heel    
against chance, pressing doubts    
razor sharp edge against its throat.    
The incision is completed effortlessly,    
the weakness deluges out to    
vanquish your sanity.    
That would've worked of course,    
if you'd had any left.  
  
Fluttering open your eyes,  
only to see butterflies,  
wings drooped deadly.
Holding your breath you use    
the rest of your numbers,
cascading towards the end.