She was silent a mute, or so they thought. Butterflies would frequent her abode. Dancing around a kaleidoscope of words fluttering around her, she was like a lantern in the dark and they seemed to be drawn to her.
But where colour was imbued above, below in unseen hollow spaces, there were remnant glimmers. Fragmentation's of what was but deathly hues enveloped in the frigid cadaverous silence.
There was no flying from where they'd fell, like autumn's leaves falling off the tree of life now they were obscurity.
No one knew that she was able to talk, but she was an empath, collecting the negativity of those around her.
Everyone thought she was in a mood. She'd just look at them with sad eyes. But she played it cool to everyone around her.
They're all happy but she whispered all the woes of every word expelled, she tried to play it cool..
But when she told the butterflies what she knew they feel frigid, cold. They wanted her company, but they hid under her bed hiding the depression that fractured
there every movement.
She always tried to show positivity, but the shards cut her feet underneath her bed.
But above was rainbows where beneath the fragmentation of emotions screamed.
Brims curving gently Beneath the glimmering sun Bonnets in full bloom.
Period drama bingefest seems to be rubbing off. :)
‘Nothing could have appealed more strongly to Miss Wantage's youthful taste, so as soon as she had changed the chip-straw hat for an Angouleme bonnet of white thread-net trimmed with lace, she sallied forth once more with Mr. Ringwood, tripping beside him with all the assurance of one who knew herself to be dressed in the pink of fashion.’ - Georgette Heyer, Friday’s Child
I used to run across the Moherian cliffs And jump to catch the first sunlight nether wisps As they twinkled like dawning fireflies shone In the jar of a hopeful wish For as just as in your hand there mine own exists Con·tent·edly