AM (03/14/95 / England)

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.

User Rating: 3,0 / 5 ( 11 votes ) 2

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