The honey scented cloud

The wind licked through it

So did the sun

And the butterfly too

Licked across her face

She lowered her neck and became

Flower petals fallen to the ground

Ahhhh, those were the fallen flowers

Inside the yard, left by the springtime

In bloom, then withered, and, we didn’t have the time to pluck it up

The spring followed the wings of the butterfly away

That, was the untaintedness of the poppy flower’s beginning

And so, how, will you return to that state of originality, from when you were in your infantile state, when the world had YET to have an effect on you?  Oh wait, you can’t, and, unlike the seasons here, you will NOT get a chance to relive that innocence again.

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Filed under Cost of Living, Creative Writing, Lessons, Life, Nowhere Is Safe, Observations, Poetry, Translated Work, Wake Up Calls, White Picket Fence, Writing

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