Poetry of a Conlanger

Thursday, May 19, 2005

The Flown Ones

I used to have buterflies
inside of me,
but they've flown away,
away.
I used to miss my butterflies,
but no longer,
no longer.
Last week they solemly returned
to flutter about me,
and I suddenly became annoyed
with these clinging creatures:
How dare they return unbidden!
But then they left,
as quickly as they'd come.
And I was glad,
and strangely confidant again,
until the ache of where my butterflies used to stay
consumed me,
and I wish again for
something to fill that ache.

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