Butterflies

Lend me your hand,
forever and on;
we'll walk miles on miles
until our hearts are sore.

Our feet so stained,
our hands much too numb;
beautiful adventures
end in tear stained sleeves.

The sunset is stunning;
the sunrise is sad,
and the morning comes quickly
to those without hearts.

A torn, tattered net,
butterflies inside,
somehow, I've misplaced them,
they don't flutter anymore.