Poor Butterfly

As soon as you have cum, my thoughts come around like a butterfly in a twister.

I think you’re pink and when I look again, you ain’t there. Where did you go?

Did you ever flow? Were you ever here? or near? I think so, but don’t really know,

because my thoughts come sudden and swift, and spin around like the unfortunate

butterfly that’s blown around and around in a circle, like a circus clown caught in the wind.

Will I ever know if winds are blowing from left to right or right to left?

The butterfly looks for a cure, but is like a bear lost in the woods, or like my brain,

that doesn’t know which way it’s going, up, down, or around, around, and around until,

silly as it sounds, it sails away, going the wrong way to a town that was never there.

Is it okay that only my thoughts think circular or am I dizzy enough to fly like that skimpy butterfly?

If you say so, I’ll believe I’m going the right way, toward the light, but what if I’m not, will I die?

If I do, will you tell me which way to go, up, down, or around. Should I follow the butterfly that blows

with the wind, or does it ride the wind to butterfly heaven? If so, that’s where I want to go.

You’ll never know, but I will, if I follow the Butterfly all the way.

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