The inspiration coarsed through his veins,

Whenever she was near,

Paintings, drawings, poems, stories,

Nothing was too out-of-reach,

She was a love-lust-inspiration object,

Exclusively for him,

A model of sorts,

Never set in one form,

Her graceful metamorphosis,

Was frequent, though her sweet nature stayed the same,

But then one day the rainclouds came,

Clouding her cheerful mind with darkness,

Cropping her butterfly-soul's wings,

Draining her of herself,

And finally he found her,

Lying beside her pink rosebush,

Her blood was spilled all around her,

Her thin white wrist was slit,

Two little blue butterflies mournfully swooped,

Down on her wrist,

Elegant even in their grief,

Then they fluttered away from her,

Into the sky like her butterfly soul,

And the he knew she was free at last,

His inspiration girl a blue-winged being forevermore.



The End

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