MN (January 13 / )

And For That I Weep

A noble butterfly quivers gently in the air.
A wing of deep violet bends further with the strain of its flight.
The aura of innocence surrounding it fills with the worst of connotations.

With time, marks come.
Worn lavender spots, almost an iridescent white, shimmer in sunlight,
An epitaph of contrast.

This prone insect, its fight for life diminished,
Lays there.
The mark of its own death,
It becomes the headstone of its own demise.

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Comments (1)

This is your most awesome sounds like something one would find a book somewhere...the diction, imagery, all fantastic...and I LOVE the last line, and I wish that I had wrote it! ! ! My dear, your poetry is splendid, and this is the best example thereof.