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I wrote down everything I knew about me,
Thick black statements and lacey ink dreams,
Scrawled on pieces of pure white paper.
Folded and cut they metamorphosised,
Into precious butterflies with joyous wings.
So beautiful and free these pieces of me.
And set to the wind they take to the air,
Scattered out across the sky of the world,
Drawing close to the light of my hope,
Seeking out the truth of my words.
And the flames jest at devourance,
Threatening to consume my hearts hope in its hunger.
Burning holes through their wings,
Curling their edges into copper and soot,
Making of them paper browns and ashes,
Moth eaten holes spattered over their wings.
Hesitantly onwards so frail do they fly
Returning to me as there is no one else.
I cradle one close observing its fate,
It's delicate threads of ashy silk,
With one misthought breath would it crumble.
And so I seek to mend my dreams,
With woven strands of pain,
And crystal pearls of poetry,
A web of words with dew dropped rhythm,
A harmony of fragile thoughts.
And then they take to air again,
Frail fleeting paper creatures.
Moth eaten moths,
Fragments of myself,
Torn and tattered memories.
My hopes for glorious light,
Set free again to fraily take to wind,
Looking for another light to lead me.