My hope, it sat upon a butterfly of painted wing, drinking deeply of the aroma of flowers. And of its steed, she flew on in bonny fashion, rising and falling only to rise again; without insulation for the winter, nor experience of icy blasts. My hope and her were blessed companions, for one cannot sense the cold and the other requires recovery without it.
Butterfly of heartbeat flutter, of summery-song and sweet-memories' serenade, enjoy these days of heady wonder and pay no mind to winters bite.
Then came a bouquet of butterflies, wings of bright tempest scales, that rained unseen to blossoms sprung.
A marriage of browns upon velvet wings gives the butterfly safe harbour in my fondest memories.
The butterfly sat upon her finger with wings of black and gold, the colours blending and swirling as playful waves upon night sands.
If ever there was magic powder, it was that iridescent glow of the butterfly wings. It casts a spell on these eyes so that my soul is brought into the moment with a fullness. I feel as if my thoughts were more tuned in somehow, as if I were a radio that's found a frequency that is both more calm and more intense all at once. That instant of seeing those petal-wings brings a serenity that holds me as if in some universal camera flash.
The butterfly is a rose on a beach; she is the life amid so much sky. She swims into the air, letting it eddy beneath her wings, curling in the sweetest of swirls. I watch her pass, fast despite her erratic path, choosing her direction by a silent serenade of the blooms.
The butterfly, flower of the sky, dances by in a whirl of colour. She is born to fly from her cocoon, to bring a beauty so delicate into the warming summer air. As sweet as the nectar she seeks, she raises her wings as an organic clock, each flutter a moment until her time of rest.
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