five-four
i weave the butterfly hairs
into your looks and they look
like feathers blowing in the airs
with no one to read the book
the tongue stopped by time
has no power behind
what a useless climb
of a different kind
the patterns free to fly
in to its’ design
sorta up high
not wanting to resign
the droppings are useful too
while fanning with the wing
fueling the fire a new
surely he wont sting
to begin
that is to begin
and not stopping
is not stopping
