push and pull in order to give—in order to receive.
a never ending lull, life is dull. a blurry mess. one which you can not,
one which you will not conceive. for my will rests
where your heart is kept. and all hearts are caged behind bars—crafted from selfishness, reinforced with tapers of confusion. broken only by the wings of the most altruistic butterfly. who dies for love. so fragile that the touch of any one stranger foolish enough to frown in its general direction can leave it flightless for all eternity. for it wishes only to entertain the magic of the heart. which exists not to my knowledge, or any mans for that matter. for if there were ever a time the heart’s magic were understood, it would have had to been in some other world. reserved not for any human who walks mother’s earth. because man is self destructive, yet cares only for himself. maybe far more than that, in fact. because people serve to destroy all that is. each other, the birds, the bees, the butterflies. you and me.