What once was
No longer makes sense
Or what is now
Is just a dream

Holding on to
A fading glance
The smallest twinkle
In the stars

Forbidden, really though?

Three harsh syllables
Butterflies stir
Say it again
The root starts to flame

Forbidden, really though!

With three harsh syllables
The glass ceiling shatters
Leaving butterfly wings
Pinned for display

With three harsh syllables
The flame crawls too high
Singeing the edges
Of hope, leaving dismay


Ashley Wilson

Country girl. Career bartender. Dance is life. Aspiring writer.

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