Lost toys and broken wings

They placed them there.
Where they should never
have been.
Blind broken toys,
searching,
     searching,
          searching.

Crows can become doves,
under the right light.
Where moths swoop,
and swoon:
The summer’s death-kiss.
Where hate replaces
lies.

And the body
frames.
Impossible projections.
Where imagined potential
overcomes.
The truth,
of broken toys.

One fixed,
one forgotten:
Left dancing.
Alone with autumn’s butterflies.

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