Anxiety's Sonnet

‘Tis the butterfly’s wings that consume me,
With hugs erect to smother me breathless,
O, how queer is the butterfly’s beauty,
when its quivers may tickle me senseless.
Its wings flit to the song of thy being,
and now methinks ’tis part of advancements,
But out of awe I find myself fleeing
above the wings of love’s own detachment.
I shall hark at the wings that impair me,
In hopes that I evoke some rebuttal,
to questions ignored by the deity;
How can I breathe when choked by wings’ cuddles?
If a butterfly is a mock of charm,
I shall pluck its wings to avenge its harm.