Saturday, March 21, 2009
Tattered wings
A s I awake and see the light that streams from the window of my room, I notice as I look out there are a few flowers starting to bloom. and a butterfly, fluttering about, among the roses in the backyard calls my attention to her grace and swings Her yellow wings bright like the sun, move to the music that the wind plays when suddenly a ghost of wind makes them brush slightly against a thorn. Her wings tattered she seems to loose altitude, but she doesn't bleed. and she continues her dance of...
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