White Butterflies
She came to; the sky was grey
And some may say, she actually flew out the door
And on her way little angels descended
Surrounding her, battered and bruised
They led her astray
Whimsical, well dressed and poor
They tended to her defection
Guided her direction
Abandoned her at the crescendo
Wanting more
Like any good performer, they graced the air before her
And some may say, she rued their sudden departure
Like actors disappearing through the gauze
Accompanied by the dying strains
Of once tumultuous applause
December 2004 Derek Wilson
