Psyche

Oh, how the butterflies fly,

Their beautiful wings subject to all but their own eyes.

Dull, colorful, bright, monochrome, transparent, crystalline,

They search desperately for a sign,

For wings, they can truly call “mine”.

Oh, how the others might lie,

Who jests and who lies?

Who to trust and who to avoid?

Should they trust everyone just to fill the void?

Should they mix truths and lies to craft answers of which they are devoid?

Oh, how the butterflies cry,

Carrying all the false narratives, they heave a sigh.

Too many of them perceived as just a beauty, a prize.

Their questions and insecurities hidden all the way to their demise,

Their shadows disappear in their beautiful disguise.

Oh, how the butterflies sigh,

Gorging on nectar that is only enough for a sugar high.

Consuming other liquids in search of nutrition,

Their foods along with their truth, always coming with dilution.

Deprived of nourishment, where is their solution, their revolution?

Oh, how the butterflies die,

In that short flight, did they ever catch their reflection?

What truth and lies did they believe, did they listen with caution?

What fake meanings and beautiful labels were placed upon them?

Stripped of proper nutrition, it is not long before their final sigh leaves them.

Oh, away the flights, lies, cries, sighs, and demise of the butterfly shy,

Who will ever know what stories they told or if they even tried?

Are their narratives truth-less?

Oh, how the universe is ruthless,

What story can they even tell when the world so quickly renders them lifeless?

Does the briefness of their flight make all of this bearable?