Lifeless butterflies, dead and dry, rest in their perpetual state upon a lovely journal that has yet to have its virgin pages marked with the scratching of a barely legible hand.
Dead yet beautiful are the butterflies.
Promising but empty is the journal.
Thoughts can be as fragile as the wings of a dead and dry butterfly. Words can be as empty as a journal with virgin pages. Life is a series of events caught in fragments of time.
Are we paying attention to them? Or are they fluttering by in a world preoccupied with lifeless and empty things?
SB LACROIX 
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