Flower petals fall from my embers
into the midnight lake of heaven,
where the cruel stars choke
their light 'til only ashes remain.
Flower petals that turn to feathers,
floating in the winter breeze,
carried along not on wings,
but violet streams of butterfly bodies,
strung together in an endless sea.
In the seasons of spring and time
the hours trickle by in the number of drops
let out from a sieve as mindless men
search for gold in the hills.
But my flower petals rise
from my fire's tongue and
lap at the lake above.
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