By Charlotte Miles
Whoosh, whish
The cursed dove soars through the air,
her wings stained a shade of ashen gray.
Splash, splish
A knocked over inkwell drips into a puddle,
but nobody bothers to clean the spill.
Tap, tap, tap
The butterfly’s footsteps echo on the floor
as she stares up towards the cloudy sky.
Thump, thump, thump
Her heart beats with her last remaining wish
to soar like the dove or fall like the dripping ink
Swoosh, drip, drip
But her wish goes forever unfulfilled,
for her wings are long since torn away.
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