Blanche

Her wings are littered with strands

Of blues, yellows, reds, greens.

Blending into a blinding whiteness.

These wings that never fly.

Resting heavily on the rotten leaves beneath her feet.

She wins nectar with these wings,

Glazes eyes with rosy hues.

Nature plucked those wings,

And took away her delicate sheets.

Reverse metamorphosis, she lies

Stagnant, in a cocoon she never intended to create.

Decaying ruthlessly, only to emerge a moth,

She herself blinded by the light she left behind.

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