And For That I Weep
A noble butterfly quivers gently in the air.
A wing of deep violet bends further with the strain of its flight.
The aura of innocence surrounding it fills with the worst of connotations.
With time, marks come.
Worn lavender spots, almost an iridescent white, shimmer in sunlight,
An epitaph of contrast.
This prone insect, its fight for life diminished,
The mark of its own death,
It becomes the headstone of its own demise.