When my butterflies fly,
I wonder why,
my heart starts to sing,
like birds in mid-spring.

Sometimes the one you think is hurting you is helping you,
and the one you thought was helping you was always quietly hurting you.
The invisible rug is always under our feet,
but who is it that holds the end?
Surprises come from everywhere,
but there's a point in life when you just won't even care.
I hope you soon get there.

Bear the moment bare and open-hearted. Bear the moment from the minute it ends to the second it started.

They knew their falling would come. Said, "Stead fast may we fall. For our legs may lie short but out heart will show tall."

Everyday at 6 on the hour May Willows bathes in her flowers.
She gently smooths her lavender upon her gentle skin,
giving it such passion it entices as if a sin.
After which she reaches for her crimson towel and envelopes herself in it's subtle yet overwhelming power.
Yes, without this barrier walls would fall, hearts would sink, evil would rise.
Then her little peachy furs flutter to a wake.

IT is this time today when May Willows recalls the fateful event of her youth that has haunted her fresh adolescents and had given her such shivering adaptations.
She recalls the cold, unwelcoming shards skidding across her face. The speed of her skin against the granite causing her senses to numb in shock.
A party was being held but the ground did crash it. The home was wrecked and the valuables were shattered in the unkind intrusion.
But what was there to do? Nothing was to be done because there was no true damage. It burned only of envy and esteem by the suns next rise.
To say "at least" for what remains means "smile" would be simple. To say another state is ill-fed so you cannot ask for more would be belittling any reason, since every story reveals a different thinking that is living a different living, comparing unique to unique.
   May Willows was brave.
But what was bravery when the day replays? And she does not scream since she stayed so brave. She screams inside looking unflappable. The terror is not found in her eyes or her soul, but within her mind. In such a life where only you know and only you feel the calamity, where is bravery? What is bravery? Comfort is difficult when the problem is a ghost. When the truth is microscopic in attempt to evade the naked eye? What is bravery when the scars reveal a story that the body cannot be true to? What then is this great bravery that one might wish to wear? What then is brave?