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It flutters on the wind Whipping throught the clouds the colours blooming carrying its heart. The horrific beauty, now lights the fires in heaven and now singes the tips of angel wings, and upturns their halos. If I reached out my hand I might tear its delecate wing, and stop the extravagence from letting go, from getting away from here. Though it's breath no longer flushes through its tiny lungs and though its blood does not rush and sprint through its viens the beauty still lingers on. It flutters upon the summer breeze like a painting it glides The now photographed splendour of a dying butterfly. |
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