I know not what I hold onto.
And sometimes, outstretched hands reach for the sky..
Like on butterfly’s gentle wings,
I float to that place where we all belong..
All long for this place, it is real, oh I’m sure!
But it’s fleeting, like all joy which is pure..
Then somber reality grips me,
With no use for protest or sound.
Everything once again,
comes crashing down.
© Diana Ganić