Written by 7:44 pm Musings


we all are 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 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

We all are butterflies

For we live in each Other’s bellies

(Visited 19 times, 1 visits today)
Subscribe to my email list and stay up-to-date!