I am a butterfly of plucked wings,
          colourful hues ground up.
  Now I'm but a past life crawling
beneath where my beauty spanned
               the unending motions of life.

Now I see myself as less than before,
                               a scar of my reality,
I have pain of gracing my wings
in an existence that is past tense.
                     Yet I feel the anguish of every flutter.

I crawl, begging for this abomination
            of fates greed to just let me bury every
thought beneath a stillness of empty thoughts.
               Yet I gaze up seeing the whispers of
every motion beat down upon me.