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
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
And they begin the slow, patient dance