As if with every tap a butterfly pulls itself from her fingertips.
Surrounded by a globe of light, secure. Bubbling with titters and chortle.
Petals drift down and form a path.
Creating a scene of golden bliss in a broken, singed labyrinth.
She drapes her memories with liveliness.
Despite their drab inner feature, exuberance come with.
Alone, not so sure, happy, all the more a bore.
She carves her path, labyrinth or more.
A fool's paradise her only cornerstone.
Up in arms with her spent moments.
Petals still floating to the floor.
She carves her path, labyrinth or more.
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