Psykhe’s Plea

You were born from the tips

of a butterflies compass

Systematic members that

form a figure eight as you take flight

But you are paper thin

So thin darling

We can all see right through you

To the spear that’s engraved

into that heart of yours

You would have thought

it was all milk and honey

Little droplets of dew

stuck like tar to that hair

dusted across your wings

That luminary sphere

had a collar wrapped around you

Rays that had sacrificed your descendants

Twelve months a year

You have barely lived

much like them

But you’re so worn out

from those passages

carved into your roots

And it’s miserable darling

Oh so pitiful

Seeing you beg Eros to set you free