Butterfly to Moth

After a while I’ll stop feeling. I’ll grow numb and old. Content to live in my plastic-coated world. As cold and as far as the stars above my head tonight. The only warmth coming from the cigarette between my lips. I’ll be able to walk down the street without missing you. To look at the stars and not think of the night I broke down in your arms. There is so much between us. Walls that will never be crossed and bridges that will never be torn down. London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady. I was a lady once. Regal and proud. My room full of flowers and sweet scents. Ring around the rosy. Pocket full of posy. Now only filled with posion and pain. Shuffeling in the shadows, slipping between the ashes falling from the sky. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. I used to think moths were just butterflies who had gotten really old. They were no longer beautiful with vibrant colors. Their life was fading. They had a good life, I mean how many problems can a butterfly have? Evidently a lot if they turned into ugly moths. At least they were beautiful once. At least I was crazy/beautiful once.