All The Burning Butterflies - Poem by Alice Miller
Orange wings dance,
a vision of shattered beauty-
thick flames turn ever slowly,
red and orange and all colors hellish.
They all dance, drifters, soarers-
poets and dancers and artists
all the soaring people, but
descent is painful, burning and burning,
all gone in smoke.
The hawks soar, preying on sore
they all stop beating and rising,
they sink like a cool black stone.
The stones burns to thin ash's,
a last remnant of something bright-
they try to rise but only sink.
When all are gone, the hawks stop and
And they begin the slow, patient dance
Comments about All The Burning Butterflies by Alice Miller
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl