Burnt Wings

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.





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