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I can see the butterflies as they seemed to me: |
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More colors than imagined; More colors than a dream |
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I can see them flying oh so easily |
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So like drifting bubbles caught upon the breeze |
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It seems that there were thousands dancing through the air |
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Now it seems they're few and painted by despair |
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Memory can prove false or weave into dreams, |
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But my life has taught me that nothing's what it seems |
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I remember scaled wings; fragile shining blue |
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They were pulsing like a heartbeat, a dreamlike ghostly glow |
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Wings of blue flame deeper than the skies |
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So like the sun's reflection shining in Death's eyes |
