O My Stupid Pretty Butterflies

O my stupid pretty butterflies

O my stupid pretty butterflies

Lying on my stomach, trying to catch the butterflies. Stupid butterflies searching for a Neverland. Their dreams don’t cease. Their colors don’t fade. And then I open my eyes.

O my stupid, pretty butterflies. I plotted a trail. I kept awake, to catch the red-winged ones I knew. With open eyes, little I knew, the winds were harsh and dreams too few. The next few hours went passing by; I didn’t catch any with an open eye.

Droopy eyes caught two on my nose. Going in opposite directions they both flew.

O my stupid pretty butterflies, the tricks you do! And there I go; hands stretched reaching out for their shades. The reds fade and flame into yellow and the greens into blue. The evening falls as wings change direction.

No, don’t you fall little fairy fly. No, don’t fall. Eye lids flutter, lose their gaze. And once again begins the chase. This night I’ll show you the stars. Just don’t fall yet. No not the stars. I am talking to you.

O my stupid pretty butterflies, I’m talking about you. You my little butterflies. Come along for some magic. Come see the stars are up and up above the maze. Bring some petals and the fragrance too. We’ll make carpet of late evening dew. O my stupid pretty butterflies, is magic true?

Shivangi

Shivangi

Some girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice. Others, like me, are red haired, raw, and quite plus sized. Read my work on food and fashion on this blog.
Shivangi
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