Black wings crushed in the dark, a butterfly suffocated by smoke each breath, a poison, each beat, a struggle. It used to shimmer in the light, a canvas of flame and ocean, burning with colors no words could hold. Blues that sang of freedom, reds that whispered of fire, golds that caught the sun itself and made it dance. But clouds of smoke choked the air, swirling thick with empty promises, wrapping tight around fragile wings, darkening every hue until the butterfly was nothing but a husk of ash. The smoke crept deep, staining the heart, a slow, silent death that looked like a dream. The butterfly, lost in the haze, forgot the weight of its own wings, forgot the sky that once held it high. It floated aimless in a fog of wasted time, the colors that once burned so bright swallowed by the grey. No more flight, no more fire, no more dawn just a shadow drifting in the smoke, a life turned dark under the weight of a lie.