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When butterflies don’t fly.
Fading away, overwhelmed in lies.
Wings eager, restricted by weeds.
Cracked mud of the soil grades the time.
When butterflies couldn’t fly.
Looking to who you
smell test and tasted.
A little fly attracted by colorful instincts,
flies unaware its self-chosen path,
fulfilling its purpose tight up in its brain
a taste of reward repeats till the unseen and end.
Flower to flower
a never-ending pursuit
in summer fragrance.
Preparing and fly
glistering wings haunting hope
its anxious nature.