A bit of conflagration is bound upon
A woven stick inside a stick made of them.
All that brave the flowery puppet enjoy
The hypnotic pattern she makes with her skin.

Her goddess-like dance imprisons them in a cage
Of glorious starshine. Her core says, “come to me
And be my lover,” as she twirls on her throne,
Throwing swishing, maddened suitors to their doom.

I gaze, as Stonehenge, for I seem to have taste
That differs from that of most. My wings are clear.
Her light passes through me, but they stop; they are caught.
Onward they trudge to meet her and all her love.

Fare thee well dirty cousins to butterflies!
I will live on the scraps of you when you die.

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