she’s a butterfly
with wings torn apart
can’t fly and no one’s there to pick her up.
but we’ll sing our songs and flutter away
forget that she ever existed our way.
once in the blue moon’s light
we’ll reflect and say
“what was her name? the one we left in another milky way?”
dust, she would’ve become by then
dust, that would haunt our souls
again and again
those pretty wings that we didn’t tear
but nor did we, nor try to – mend
one by one
we’ll see our own scars, cuts and holes
before we know, our wings will give away
we won’t fly and there’ll be no one to pick us up.
and then we’ll remember her name
she was love, hate, sweetness and pain.