Change
August 25, 2010Are there none who live around us who know just what we are?
Like a moth changing bodies for a new and distant land.
From a dusted grey coat to a bright feathered headband.
We were dying in the night sky.
Now we fly through the sun’s warm rays.
I spread my wings for the child’s appeasement.
You tickle the cheeks of some lover’s face.
We remain voiceless about what comes next.
We’ve traded our grey existence for a colorful mask.
The completion of this beauty is an unnoticed death.
That’s the plight of the sacred, returning to the ash.
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