Ficly

webs

We are not hunters: we are butterflies;
it seems our lives are fine-line spiderwebs

We taste with our feet , and crawl to the sky;
yet the world called us beautiful, not strong

As our eyed wings flap, we ride on the wind,
yet the destination remains the same

As our handmade , silken dresses beckon,
we lust and lunge ourselves towards the fire

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