Where will it scuttle, this voice fawnshy? |
Drawn out poorly the inksketch of a thing about to die. |
There is less than you think behind each quivering eye. |
Its frail fans pinned for you, the butterfly. |
||
Dressed in tears always smiles cannot cry |
Form steams in the chill air with a sigh. |
A small object on the ground symbolises insignificance when set against the sky. |
