All The Burning Butterflies

Orange wings dance,
a vision of shattered beauty-
thick flames turn ever slowly,
red and orange and all colors hellish.

They all dance, drifters, soarers-
poets and dancers and artists
all the soaring people, but
descent is painful, burning and burning,
all gone in smoke.

The hawks soar, preying on sore
paper-like wings-
they all stop beating and rising,
they sink like a cool black stone.

The stones burns to thin ash's,
a last remnant of something bright-
they try to rise but only sink.
When all are gone, the hawks stop and
wait.....
And they begin the slow, patient dance
again.

by Alice Miller

Other poems of MILLER (6)

Comments (2)

This is outstanding. What a vivid picture you have painted. I loved it. Best wishes.
You're thirteen? ! ? ! ? Okay, I'm not being fair because I know teens have talent. This is amazing and so compelling, applicable to so many things. Wonderful job Colette