Pin needle blanched in deceit,
Who are you not, my boy?
Butterflies erupt from his fingertips,
As reality shatters before her eyes.
Peering into an obsidian jar of stars,
She tries desperately to piece them back together.
But the veil of satin slips from her hand,
And is savagely trampled under the horses’ hooves.
© Zelda Reville