In the storm, the butterfly folds,
its wings shattered, its soul cold,
resting, as the rain carves paths of pain,
each drop a memory of what once remained.

We are no different,
torn by winds, broken by time,
waiting for the silence that never comes,
clutching at fragments of hope,
drowned by the weight of our own breath.

It’s easy to believe that rest is peace,
but we know—
there is no solace in stillness.
Only the crushing weight of what’s lost,
what’s never to be found.

Yet we wait,
hidden in the dark,
knowing the storm will pass,
knowing we will rise again—
but only as shadows of who we once were.