Ghost Butterflies

By a crooked moon’s sigh, they silently fly, Ghost butterflies drift through a sepia sky. With wings made of whispers and bones laced with thread, They flutter through graveyards and dreams of the dead.

They don’t make a sound, nor shimmer nor gleam, Just flutter through cracks in a half-broken dream. They perch upon tombstones with cold little feet, And sip from the shadows instead of the sweet.

Once they were bright things, all yellow and blue, Till they flew where they shouldn't, as foolish things do. Now cursed by the night and the wind’s hollow cries, They flicker and flinch�"these ghost butterflies.

If you see them in moonlight, don’t follow their trail, They'll lead you through mist and a coffin-strewn vale. For those who chase wings that no longer belong, May vanish by morning... or worse�"stay too long.

Reviews

[RomaJ]

This is such a unique and hauntingly beautiful piece. I love how the butterflies, usually symbols of brightness and renewal, are transformed here into eerie, spectral creatures drifting through graveyards and dreams. The imagery feels both delicate and chilling. The "wings made of whispers" especially stuck with me. It reads like a dark fairytale, lyrical and unforgettable.