Butterflies

A dying child puffs his smokes at me: why be a baby? Why be a dying man?

I’m constantly torn between race and culture: religion and future.

Lets all sink and die, believe and rise. For I lost a baby, yet she speaks of an angry woman, a praying one, another day another death.

Tell me of a lord, maybe I would worship: Tell me of a sun, maybe I will lookup: For I am vulnerable to a love I never saw, never will meet, A baby perhaps a blue: A steady, perhaps a moon.

For we all are butterflies: we live in each Others bellies.