don't you know

time spent telling stories it's never about. it's about proximity, becoming that which clashes, first stranger than an awareness predictions have almost never accurate; and yet fools walk on hopes resting on hell's door. what's up silly? a butterfly raises wings; flies off the shoulders of one distracted; too busy catching rainbows - it's just an illusion; you can't actually hold it, grasp though feelings are like butterflies they life wings dart about then drop from the sky when wings get soaked with thunder clouds not forgiving. multicolored butterfly struggling to raise rise: can not, rainbow colors flushing through out at the end of the bridge hindsight. meanings become clear; the door opens and a kindred finds friends familiar - time spent, relationships forge into a bridge of iron and dust. i know you, and that's what matter - you know when stories end; it's about what actually happened.