Psychoanalyzed by the New Testament,
I'm a crippled marionette.
Hopeless like a moth drawn to flame
or a passenger on a plane.
I'd try to teach what I could and spare you
from hurt but we both know too well
life is too short to do anything
but dive into flame.
Half a thousand pictures later,
I still don't know where to find you.
You flutter by, my pretty butterfly with wings dipped in paint,
every strum soaring closer to your fate.
Oily fingers corrode such a beautiful, fleeting deception.
You may find this depressing,
like glass slides from an insect collection.