Crocodile Medicine
I always said that when I die,
I would love to return as a butterfly.
One with yellow, velvet dominions,
Fragile and lofty pinions.
I confused freedom of flight,
With a more placid folly of delight.
I fancied a short life of absurdity,
Rather than one of conformity.
Now I cherish longevity,
Grounded within ancient philosophy.
To satisfy the quench of survival,
Claim a primal, self-powered revival.
A fierce passion for more depth,
The precious treasure of breath.
Stamina and vigor from inner domination,
So I value every moment of creation.
Oh! The prehistoric sagacity,
Exempt from conceited desparity.
Replaced with the confidence to lurk,
And love obscurity's dark murk.
And still adore butterfly's romance,
Though not as a victim of happenstance.
Should the winged one wish to not feed her fears,
She can drink from years of crocodile tears.
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