In the vague realms of unkind time
Where butterflies are born,
We reach out to render the moment
As mine,
Where nothing could appear as a hollow forlorn,
But bound by its illusive boundaries
Where all is left as an unearthly sign
I see it flicker,
In crowd and in company,
I saw it sing and see it dance
To a wind of hopes
Where our dreams were too given a chance
An impression of inkling imagine?
It impersonated a masquerade,
A quite seemingly pretentious charade
Of their millions of scales
And all the colors that followed after,
It took only a moment
That, only one, I reached out to render
The camouflaging ferment,
Of what is,
Of what was
A beautiful crimson.
