Dawn

She dances in her insanity with the sick moon that hangs, drooping above.

“I am not afraid,” she whispers as the coarseness of her hair brushes slowly across her dead skin. But somehow is she beautiful. Every movement is fragile, the smooth caramel skin dyed with age kissing every loving curve on her body. But all that changes when the sun rises, only because they failed to see. In the middle of her usual solitary stricken dance, the rays spread across the miles of the earth and reach her– flesh becomes stone. A new day once more, another tomorrow to come, a new yesterday made past– just as the dawns always have to end, another shall rise. The tear frozen stone upon a cheek that once contracted to a smile, was stole by what we call so golden. We all have butterflies, but we all dream of birds. If only you could see what I can see.