he passes over a million heads,
a thousand lives fruitlessly lead.
Such a sight my eyes behold,
with no motive I am told.
Waters deep from rippling streams
glazed of gold by sunbeams.
What is such a seeming less trek,
the phantoms of the mind conjures,
are the images we see, ourselves,
or are we just microscopic cells.
Flowers on a thorny bush,
with beauty such as they inspire,
petals bright of scarlet flames,
bathed in the sun’s warm desire.
Here we stand some minute speck
near the greater door.
Something more than our mind can behold.
Our future somewhere inside is stored.
Where we go, and what we do,
are we mere puppets on a string,
under someone’s control.
White tipped mountain range,
peaks touch the sky,
there wings again the butterfly.
Does he hold the future,
is that why he crumbles to our touch?
Butterfly pray tell me,
the message that you hold,
where is my future sold.
Do wishes come true?
Do they transpire,
if so where can they be found?
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