Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Le Papillon

I misheard a butterfly,
and thus was it born.
Colorful, it flew forth,
flowed from French
lips and French tongue,
of mixed Franco phones
it flapped around.
All color, no substance;
in reality was drowned.

I dreamed myself a lover,
in thought she existed.
A beauty made of mere
as reality dawned,
she dried up into air.
Though hoped for,
though nearly felt,
she was never there.

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