A butterfly lands perched upon its conceit palace.
As his wings sway in the gentle breeze of things.
He has the wind beneath him.
The word beneath that.
In an instant, the splash of color granted to man is whisked away. Taken from our sight.
The gift of golden appendages modeled after the angles is no longer ours to cherish.
He is needed elsewhere. To fulfill promises of his own.
And just like that, the symbol of our affection is gone. Carried away with the wind.
The beauty is no more.