Beneath the blue paint,
where the moth sat,
a hidden crack in
the wooden post,
the moody teens’
outburst kick.
Touching it,
soothe the scar in
the memory,
smile at his silver wings
now, yet with ever existing
tiny butterfly-clouds within,
praying and wishing to
repel yet another shadow.
Motherly sentiments,
beyond mood, until
her flesh turns to ash.

By Byung A. Fallgren