those beautiful painted designs rested
meticulously on the wings of a butterfly
would always make her think
of her father
the night she bled them loose
into the shadows from her palm
against an inhabited night which she swore
would go on and on
theoretically
as the visage of a forgotten dream
ache intermingled with her soul,
dying, dying to ever know again
the theme which startled her heart to utter bitterness
"where are you daddy?" she'd whisper in
her mind as her weariness regarded
the final flutter of the remaining butterfly,
who imbued the lulling air,
as the thief
of an unchaotic reality
then wisps of memories
flooded her unchained heart
to drown her love for his very own
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