August 25, 2010

Are 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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