The
night cracked under whips of oppression.
Plotting
with slow digression,
Upon
the lips of deception,
For
fear of sheer rejection.
Sharp
clangs screeched through the thick brush.
A
shadowy figure appears
It
is dazed and in a frenzy.
Worn,
tired, rabid, and alone.
It
falls to the forest floor
Disturbing
the creatures below.
A
white butterfly drifts through the darkness.
Fluttering
towards the frail beast.
She
hovers over its body,
Gently
perching on its chest.
She
hums a song of times past…
The
beast cries out in agony.
It
weeps with an elicit tear;
Recalling
such wondrous tones.
Blinding
white light sheds its black cloak.
A
pile of ebony dust shrouds the grasses.
Two
specs rise up from the ashes,
One
white and the other pure black.
They
are one always: a pack.
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