Butterfly

The violins cry out for cultural identity. As bullets still fly from klashnikov’s. “The cold is coming.” Sounds the whispers of suicidal writers. Innocence is manipulated, developed, then kills. Released from hate. The defiance, awe inspiring. As caterpillar to butterfly, let the metamorphosis happen. In a white stoned building I see lions in crowns movingContinue reading “Butterfly”