She was silent a mute, or so they thought.
Butterflies would frequent her abode.
Dancing around a kaleidoscope of words fluttering
around her, she was like a lantern in the dark
and they seemed to be drawn to her.
But where colour was imbued above,
below in unseen hollow spaces,
there were remnant glimmers.
Fragmentation's of what was but deathly hues
enveloped in the frigid cadaverous silence.
There was no flying from where they'd fell,
like autumn's leaves falling off the
tree of life now they were obscurity.
No one knew that she was able to talk,
but she was an empath,
collecting the negativity of those
around her.
Everyone thought she was in a mood.
She'd just look at them with sad eyes.
But she played it cool to everyone around her.
They're all happy but she whispered all
the woes of every word expelled,
she tried to play it cool..
But when she told the butterflies what she knew they
feel frigid, cold.
They wanted her company, but they hid under her
bed hiding the depression that fractured
there every movement.
She always tried to show positivity,
but the shards cut her feet underneath her
bed.
But above was rainbows where beneath the
fragmentation of emotions screamed.