| Mourning of No Mourning A reflection of the butterfly, with fingers stretching down the sides of its body and eyes the size of pebbles gazing upon the unseeing world, flutters in the fantastic window. It mimics the cruel sleep in its tight mummy-wrap as it dips and turns in a spasm of emotion. It knocks the pane, assumed pain fractures the sympathetic glass. This morning, no one�s mourning. No one is watching this final dance, since time is a thing that doesn�t even stop for the beautiful and fleeting shadow of a ballerina. |