Always something left to love

The wind died down
After hours of sighing
Of crying and blowing

A shape — some form
Some inhumane difference — 
Stood up, exhausted.

The gale had gone
The danger done;
A breeze replaced it

The fallen leaves
Gently jumped
From the ground

The sun calmly
Stroked the creature’s
Exposed body.

His butterfly wings
Were tired and
Torn around the edges

He raised a wrinkled wing
As it trembled against
The soft resistance of the wind

A lonely current ran through
A single hole in
His fragile aged limb

He shuddered as
A chill air traveled
Across his tortured corpse.

Pale shadows crept in,
A shifty wind — shouts of disgust
Disguised as cries of fright

Crumpling under the blows
Zephyr was awake
The man lay out like an angel

He was alone, but really —

He was other
He was different
He was dead.

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