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Posted: April 1, 2017 in Poems, Random Writings

The intensity of life she emits from within
overshadows the sun.
Yet she believes she is cold,
she is dead inside
and thrives on feeling alive.

She scuttles around the mirage of a palmful lustrous liquid
and believes it to be her soul.
Assumes it can charge her draining spirit.
Says it can fill the bottle of her happiness
and make her whole again.

But the last time she looked herself in the mirror,
she ceased to notice her soul within-
soft and silky-
it was fueling the breathless bodies around her,
it was healing the broken spirit.
She looked past everything
and silently dropped tears where she was standing.

But, Why?
Perhaps,
she is a butterfly.

****************************

-Ashma

3rd December 2016

12:59 AM

 

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