http://wordwulf.com/poetry
~Butterfly Poet~ It finally arrived,
the day words wouldn’t come, the empty feeling refused to go. He tore his hand from
the glove of his mind, watched his imagination, those minute remnants left, dribble
onto the notebook, a blot pattern blood ink. He wrote an ode to the butterfly:
~WordWulf~
~Butterfly Poet~ It finally arrived,
the day words wouldn’t come, the empty feeling refused to go. He tore his hand from
the glove of his mind, watched his imagination, those minute remnants left, dribble
onto the notebook, a blot pattern blood ink. He wrote an ode to the butterfly:
~WordWulf~
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