Time, life, and butterfly wings; all so very fragile things.

Who am I to calm the beast, when all is lost to the marching feet?

How can I know when my time is up, the curtains close, my soul fed up.

How do I know when to head out west, and follow the sun on his long last decent?

I guess I can’t, and I never will;

‘Till those dark billowing clouds take me over that hill.

But maybe by then I will have come to the terms,

stride into those dark curtains with outstretched arms.

Maybe then I’ll know how to take the last bow,

and give back to the earth her energy flow.