"butterlie" poems
They put her on an iron pedestal
And poured bronze into her veins
But her ceramic wings crumbled
And her varnish chipped
Revealing pale skin white like the moon
White like a butterlie
White like her empty insides
And she decided that she didn't
Want to be an angel anymore
But she was too short, too small
And the pedestal too high off the ground
Too far away from reality
Real cities
For her to leave
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC