A butterfly laments the night.
Her colors, once a vibrant flare,
Now fade to ash in the cool, still air.
Through twilight’s arms, she glides in pain,
Each fallen feather a silent stain.
Her heart, a wound that softly weeps,
For love now buried in shadowed deeps.
A hand, so cold, with cruel delight,
Stole her wings in the quiet night.
He wore her beauty, claimed her grace,
And left her broken in hollow space.
Yet in the dark, a spark takes flight—
Hope flickers faint beneath the blight.
For even shattered wings can rise,
To greet the dawn with fearless eyes.
Through tears, through loss,
she’ll find her might,
Unfurling strength with each new flight.
A symbol born of grief and strife,
The butterfly reclaims her life.
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