Spreading your wings wide and rising high,
Twirl and dance in colours seen on beautiful dye,
And hearing the universe cry.
Space-time dissolves as you flap your mighty wings,
A power desired by mighty kings,
To an unexisting vortex of time, she clings,
Naught but infinitely unravelling strings.
Can one be, if there is no time,
Knowing neither reason nor rhyme?
Is being ever changeable,
Or is being a resting soul?
Can one be, not knowing a place,
Always moving, through time and space?
A variable, never one,
Everything is always undone.
Can one be, in such a maelstorm,
Drifting forever without form?
And, truly, can a being be,
If there is no being to be?
Oh, butterfly, butterfly, desperately fly,
All for a moment of peace, you try,
Colours, for you unseen, whenever you zip by,
Crying unspilled tears, always dry.
Space-time dissolves as you flap your wings weakly,
A power rendering reality bleakly,
Observing the universe through glass obliquely,
Lacking control, slipping through time uniquely,
Can one be, without a present,
Not knowing where history went,
Lacking future's enticing scent,
Merely traversing timelines, bent?
But, though this does not rhyme, you have created,
An Island in the Sea of Time.
And, perhaps our shared meeting was fated,
Fins, rest now, your soul ungated.