Orange wings dance, <br /> a vision of shattered beauty- <br />thick flames turn ever slowly, <br />red and orange and all colors hellish. <br /> <br />They all dance, drifters, soarers- <br />poets and dancers and artists <br />all the soaring people, but <br />descent is painful, burning and burning, <br />all gone in smoke. <br /> <br />The hawks soar, preying on sore <br />paper-like wings- <br />they all stop beating and rising, <br />they sink like a cool black stone. <br /> <br />The stones burns to thin ash's, <br />a last remnant of something bright- <br />they try to rise but only sink. <br />When all are gone, the hawks stop and <br />wait..... <br />And they begin the slow, patient dance <br />again.<br /><br />Alice Miller<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-the-burning-butterflies/
