sábado, 10 de janeiro de 2026

Addicted to the gust

 Butterflies use the wind
Flying up into it
Awkwardly searching for control
But the wind takes away all control

All there is 
Is the buttefly pretending
When wind eases off
It slinks into a nearby tree

What was it's purpose from the beginning
To be spun, taken, whirled and thrown
Why would it choose the wind
What kind of excitement was it looking for?

Driving it's own wings to tatters
just for a thrill

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