white wings.

The sky of pink and lilac

Caresses the soft skin of the young,

Their minds not yet found by the harsh world,

Their bodies not yet held,

By bears holding butterflies.

 

Or by bears holding butterflies in the palm of their hands,

Surrounded by a net of claws,

Licking lips,

Whispering sweet nothings about their delicate white wings that shine in the light.

 

Butterflies fly from flower to flower,

Collecting nectar for survival.

But instead of flowers,

Bears stood in place,

And for nectar; complements.

 

The sky of pink and lilac

Caresses the wrinkled skin of the old,

Their minds finally found;

And their white wings continued to flutter

Long after complements stopped,

They didn’t need them to be beautiful.

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