• We're all like caterpillars,
    we are reaching for our final destination along this highway,
    such like beautiful butterflies, that flock by millions in summer,
    and fade away colors in winter's potion.

    We're all attempting on premature wings,
    I wonder of it's worth,
    for all our patterns woven girth,
    for one shooting star spark, one aura that seems never ending,
    burst and descend.

    This journey covered by fallen leaves,
    It built me from the womb up,
    my tears with bittersweet, as to have drowned my depression under itself,
    staying my head down, as to shade in and replace,
    that Medusa stare pushing stone.

    Spent a time or two,
    on thoughts of where my significance grew,
    such long thoughts waiting for answers drawn out,
    that left best forgotten, a rotten answer,
    and dismissal of dream.

    As schizophrenic eyes appear from shadow drawings,
    making aware my inner eye,
    while I watch the absurd continue daily,
    pointless spiral reasons commit frailly,
    the eyes outside its canvas grow, I'm carried through the undertow.

    Butterflies dangling,
    flying illusionist contraptions, frittering away with their mating rituals,
    flying on tissue like wings, the snow clumping upon them,
    dancing ballet for the dust and ash,
    they all fall from the sky.