Butterflies

Hell turns to ice
When she's lying in bed,
(With a halo's glow wrapped round' her head)
If I'd pick twice
At my logical threads
(like the teddy bear she holds in the medicine bed)

I'd have a mind to think she'd pass, tonight.

Yet I breathe at the pace
That the heart machine makes
(Just to feel that she's closer than face to face)
Somehow, I'm finding
A hope that swells
(That bounces like raindrops to a wishing's well)



And I'd bet my coins that
There could be butterflies

Drawn from the curves of the monitor's lines.