Butterfly

Mother warned us to rely on the bloom of flowers and to never trust sugar water.   Yet there is a place rumored to have Beethoven's Conchairto on loop, where the temperature never wanes.  It holds a consistent seventy-five degrees in defiance of night fall.  Imagine a landscape that is filled with right angles and misted on the hour.  A paradise devoid of frogs and birds.  It is the answered prayer of a second cocoon.  Why should the admonition of faded old wings deprive us?  Hear this, wind can not disturb the squared sanctuary.  One can fly straight to a destination as an arrow released from a bow.  They say the giants which rule over it are cruel.  It is a scare tactic of cowards.   Brethren, why be stuck to a tree as vulnerable when we can be worshiped as symbols of ascension and beauty?  Cover the fields as you forbearers, or pluck a superior destiny for yourselves.  Our time is little upon the earth.  Should it be spent toiling aside the suspicious stinging swarm that create needless traffic?  Take to the air in formation.  Take to the air as singlets.  Follow me and I will pioneer a new age of certain heights.  Timidity is strong among our flutter.  It is practically doctrine.  Watch me and do likewise.  There is nothing to fear. I will taste sweet waters for all of us.  Oh my, what is meant by this glass jar?  Mother, how could I have been so foolish?