The Wings of a Butterfly


They are odd creatures,
Fluttering, flittering, flying.
They blink in and out of slight,
Never long enough to fully exist.
Open, close,
Colors shifting and bending

They are in children's' dreams,
Shimmering, dazzling, inspiring.
In view before dashing away,
bouncing above fields of poppies.
Open, close,
Dancing among the breeze.

They are beautiful,
Snapping, ripping, tearing.
In tatters before falling,
Slowly towards the ground.
Open, close,
They are not mine.

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