Where the Butterflies Sleep
This piece was actually created on January 10, 2010 but never published anywhere else but on my private notes on Facebook.
Light after months in death,
With wings adorned as holly wreathe,
But an angel they are not,
Yet to guard what I have sought.
No lids to close at night,
The skies a forever sight.
The butterfly does sleep,
As often as it should weep.
Yet nightly rest bring none,
But the gold of morning sun.
Silent are these troubles,
That are without a voice.
Alone to keep and bare,
A trouble for which to fear.
That makes a butterfly's wings,
And that, that wakes the butterfly.
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