Powdered once; Butterfly Wings



Lines.
Semicircle,
With curve up.
Smoky residue,
In the frigid cold.
Level ovals,
With lines down the center.
Deep, dark rings around.
Sparkling in the light.
Silent and oblivious,
As looked into with wet and reddened eyes.
Which were none other then mine.
Who would let this happen?
Why did they let go, why was it allowed?
Looking down as not to be seen,
As silent tears stream down my face.
Opened eyes,
Lifted head, got up and ran out the door.
Running down the hills, stairs, and yard.
Running with no destination.
Sadness turning to anger.
Faster, faster.
Anger turning to hate.
Faster, faster.
Then once again,
Hate turning to love.
Faster, slower.
Down twin yellow lines to finally collapse,
To knees, crying, unable to breathe.
Then realizing life.
That free will really is like Butterfly wings,
Once touched they never get off the ground.
I know that now.