The Collection

A scatter of iridescent wings beneath the shattered glass. A collection of still butterflies, dead memories of my past. An attempt to break the patterns of a life not lived before. The remnants of a squandered fortune I'm left no less, no more. I try to see beyond my walls of Crystal city's broken dreams. I listen in the silence, for my own protracted screams. I'm growing yet, I'll grow still more, to be a better man, like a diamond forming in the ground, to glitter on your hand. A scatter of iridescent wings, beneath the shattered glass, a collection of still butterflies, dead memories of my past. The past is ever fading. The days ahead seem bright. I tried to overcome the drug, God knows I lost the fight. The only way I'll win the war, is to give my soul, my life to God. He is the Fisher of all men, I'm bending down the rod. He is my strength, my source of light, when I'm lost out in the dark. I know that he will save my life, and allow new light to spark. A scatter of iridescent wings beneath the shattered glass a collection of still butterflies, dead memories of my past. The butterflies will stir again. They'll fly the winds they did before. The shattered glass will crystalize and bend the light once more. A rainbow of refraction. The sun beams through the glass. The collection of still butterflies, is free again at last.