Gut-wrenching butterflies,
Cry— at sights unseen
From avoiding eye.
Dressed up fatalities
Masquerade as formalities,
And change is on the back burner.
Restless fear of the next dark corner.
Churning pain returns again,
Butterflies now die but leave behind
New cocoons, wistfully waiting
For emerging life to carry on,
Witnessing the frustrating.
Spun lies, keeping ties,
Wishing for the berating from the wise
To minimize, and eventually
Hope the flutter of their wings calm,
I hope, oh so desperately.