ButterflyWings shimmer and flap
It crawls noiselessly among the flowers
A gossamer dew drop falls and twirls
Catching the early dawn
And lands on its fragile wings
Magnifies and clarifies its
Miniscule golden scales
And runs off, a drop of pure light
WerewolvesWhen the howls of the werewolves are the things that we all hear,
Most will get their weapons out and gather up in fear.
But we mustn't be afraid of them and their obscure, dark past,
For we're the ones who treat them like they're monsters and outcasts.
When somebody went missing, we'd blame it's fearful cry,
And then we got our pitchforks, they were the ones to die.
Think of them as different, as wild or as free,
From this imperfect heaven that we call humanity.
Absence of SomethingEerie pale light lit up the forest floor. The night lived quietly, like a sleeping animal. Aria didn't hear the noises she usually heard. She was never terrified of the forest, not until now. She felt a strange presence in the atmosphere, equally mysterious and terrifying. Her eyes, now adjusted to the light, saw dark needles and leaves against the indigo velvet sky. The air was cold and still. It seemed like nothing was alive, just her, and the forest.
Aria did not even remember why she wanted to go out at such a late time. She couldn't sleep for hours, and the forest's call pulled her to where she was now. In the forest. In the dark. It must be at least midnight, she thought. I should head back home and get some sleep. She turned around and walked in the direction she came from. A shadow slid along behind her as she sleepily walked home.
The next morning she had vague memories of her midnight walk. She stretched and rolled over to get out of bed. She made her bed, folding the lav