They flicker—
petals plucked from unseen gardens,
their colors bleeding into the hush of the sky.

A whisper of lilac, of crushed gold,
of rain-drenched sapphire,
they spiral like forgotten prayers.

Underneath the aching hush of dusk,
the butterfly’s wings
shimmer like glass about to break—
fragile, too fragile,
as if beauty was never meant to last.

Mist hums in the hollow between trees.
The meadow, once a cradle of light,
now wilts into sighs,
its perfume dampened with grief.

And still they rise,
a shiver of soft rebellion,
a trembling hymn against the dimming world.

Each beat of wing,
a memory unmade,
a soft ache threading through twilight veins,
leaving ghost-lit trails
in the evening’s failing breath.

Perhaps this is how paradise fades—
not with fire,
but with the slow, silver drowning
of wings too heavy with dreams.