The husk cracked open, not of silk, but of skin…
And from that open, gaping mouth,
Where the final gasp had frozen into a doorway,
Her soul escaped.
It was not a ghost, nor a flicker of light,
But a wet-winged thing,
Shaking off the iridescent dust of existence,
A butterfly carved from the marrow of her screams.
Rated for Everyone
Categories:
PoetryWet-Winged Thing
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