Burnt Wings

April 16, 2010
A burnt wing of a butterfly,
Crisp from the ash.
Pulled up by pale fingers,
A savior too late.
The building is in ruins,
The yard all frayed.
People cry out,
Asking for help, help, help.
But you stare at the butterfly in your hand,
A horrible ache in your chest.
Your cry is louder and louder,
Before you’re suddenly competing with the others.
And you moan as you carry
Your daughter
Away from the wreckage.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback