Butterflies of various, vibrant colors zip past me, each one an eccentric design that mesmerizes me.

  As I reach up to grab hold of them, they disintegrate into the past, heavy boulders dragging me down as they flutter to star streaked skies.

  The moon laughs as the sun dances around the Earth for a millennium, the same repetitive orbit over and over again.

  An everlasting scar in Mother Earth's skin engulfs me in a wave of darkness as the tiny dots seem to flutter to the edges of the moon.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  As I trudge up the canyon's walls, hoping and dreaming to see those eccentric and vibrant wings, crumbs of my soul fall down into darkness.

  There is a laughter within the darkness. A laughter that is both cheerful but held down by a constant weight. This weight is something that will never be satisfied, perfection.

  It is once when these wings seamlessly seemed so perfect that I felt the need to bury them in the darkest depths of the Earth.

  I now see that these wings were and never will be perfect.

  There will always be a mishap, mistake, or even imperfection that makes them something wondrous and worth remembering.

  The true imperfection is our inability to see perfection at its greatest.