To flit,
from silken pyjama print
and into my dreams.
Or so it seems.
Taking kisses from elves as they stack shelves in celestial supermarkets.
Or dance between the drops of
Champagne fountain in a private castle courtyard on top of the metal mountain.
To carry me on beyond the oily gates of goblin lords who can afford all the peasants they adore.
Towards morning light, a pure delight, my escort leaves me and takes flight.
So I awake to roaring day and the butterfly sleeps once more.
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